


Almost Familiar

by MickyRC



Series: the Almost Familiar 'verse [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol, Alcohol Poisoning, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale adopts all the queer kids of London, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Not Really Character Death, Panic Attacks, Queer Character, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Queer Themes, Queer Youth, Referenced/Implied Transphobia, The Dowlings' A+ Parenting (Good Omens), Trans Character, Transitioning, a herd of wild(ly queer) OCs appear, he's okay I promise, mentions of vomit (no actual vomit), teenage drinking, this all makes it seem a lot darker than it is, unintentional deadnaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22080106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/pseuds/MickyRC
Summary: Warlock couldn't help being a little underwhelmed by Soho.  There was nothing there that really struck him.Except that bookshop.  That weird little street corner that didn’t match up at all with the bars and clubs all around it.  That place was interesting.  The paint was chipping, and the windows were too dusty to see through, but it felt… safe, sort of.  A calm little patch of quiet at the center of London’s hustle and bustle.  Something about it was… almost familiar.In which Warlock thinks he's been abandoned, Crowley and Aziraphale think Warlock is dead, and they all find each other anyway.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Brother Francis
Series: the Almost Familiar 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927987
Comments: 225
Kudos: 1231
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Lost And Found Family, Most Favs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megchad22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megchad22/gifts).



> Just barely in time, here's my pinch hit for the Good Omens Holiday Swap, for Megchad22!
> 
> Guys, seriously, writing this was _such_ a treat. The prompt--my god, the fucking prompt was so good, I went a little feral over it. And the _biggest_ thank yous to RefrainGirl and NarumiKaiko for betaing this. The first draft was... well, it was very much a first draft. Thank them for the relative lack of plot holes and sentences that don't mean anything. Any mistakes left are entirely my own.
> 
> _Prompt: College age Warlock is dared by some friends to enter the stuffy old bookshop in Soho. There he finds faces from his childhood, faces he thought had abandoned him. Faces who had been mourning him and believed him dead since he was 11._

Warlock Dowling did not, under any circumstances, take dares. That was drilled into him from a young age: don’t do what other people tell you to. It was one of the few consistent messages he ever got. Don’t do what other people tell you to because they’ll try to take advantage of you. Don’t do what other people tell you to because they’ll think you’re weak. Don’t do what other people tell you to because you should follow your own moral compass.

Don’t do what other people tell you to because you are greater and more powerful than they will ever be, and one day the earth and everything on it will bow at your feet.

That day hadn’t come yet, though. As far as anyone else was concerned, Warlock was just another rich kid with a silver spoon in his mouth and a trust fund in the bank. And if he played his cards right, soon enough he wouldn’t even be that.

He checked his chin in the mirror again. Of course he’d gotten a breakout _now_ , in the first week of classes. The concealer seemed to be holding up though, from any angle he looked at, and the light taps of eyeliner should pull people’s attention anyway. It was a subtle look, toned way down from what he used to wear in high school. He liked it. He liked that he didn’t have to put up such a fuss to be taken seriously anymore. He liked that he could just exist the way he wanted to, and his friends wouldn’t give a shit as long as he was enjoying himself.

Of course, that last bit depended on him actually making friends, and if he didn’t get a move on, he was gonna get left behind. He really didn’t need that kind of disadvantage right out of the gate.

“Oi, Warlock! You ready?” Warlock’s cheeks flushed. Was that good? Was that a frustrated, you’re-holding-us-up kinda call? But they’d remembered him, had come to look for him, that must be a good sign. Maybe?

Grabbing his bag and opening the door, he found Rachel grinning at him. A good sign, then. He smiled back.

“There he is!” Ollie gave him a once over, but her eyes caught on Warlock’s messy bun, the more feminine touch of a barrette holding his bangs back. “Er, or is it—”

“Nah.” Warlock shifted, pulling at his bag’s strap. “ _He_ is good.” God, fuck, why couldn’t he get his goddamn blushing under control? It was a normal question. Normal for people like them, at least, a bunch of queer kids finally out of their parent’s houses and maybe a little high on the freedom.

Jules pushed away from the wall. “Right then, let’s go! I wanna get to Soho before it gets too hectic.”

“It’s Soho,” Warlock said, following them down the hall. “It’s always hectic.”

But that didn’t stop them. They wound through the crowds and got lost on the tube, and Warlock got teased about his half-way American accent, but absolutely delighted Jules when he was able to name every stop on the Circle line in order, and Rachel dared Ollie to point at the map at random, which got them lost again, but somehow they did wind up at Leicester Square, and then just a few blocks later they were in the heart of Soho.

They wandered around, a newly minted group of teenagers just released onto the world, trying to present themselves as the themselves they wanted to be and desperately hoping they weren’t being too weird for everyone else. It matters, those first few weeks of uni. It’s a chance to go out and say _this_ is who I am, and there’s nobody around who already knew you to object to that. It’s big and freeing and just so exciting.

It’s also fucking terrifying, but no one’s going to say _that_ out loud.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around Soho, getting to know each other as much as the area. This place that was supposedly theirs. Their heritage; their refuge, if they needed one. Warlock couldn’t help but think it was a little underwhelming. Just another London neighborhood. A little more run down and a lot more touristy than the one he’d grown up in, not to mention the abundance of pride flags, but still. Nothing that really struck him.

Except that bookshop. That weird little street corner that didn’t match up at all with the bars and clubs all around it. That place was interesting. The paint was chipping, and the windows were too dusty to see through, but it felt… safe, sort of. A calm little patch of quiet at the center of London’s hustle and bustle. Something about it was… almost familiar.

“Warlock! _Warlock!_ ” He jolted and looked around. His friends (yeah? yeah, his friends) were already across the street, looking back at him. “You good?”

He looked back at the bookshop. It _was_ familiar, even though he’d hardly ever been to Soho as a kid. “Shoulda known you’d hold us up at a bookstore.” Ollie came up next to him, hands jammed into the pockets of her jean jacket.

Warlock shrugged. “I like books.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Rachel tapped his bag, which, sure enough, was weighed down with a few paperbacks. “We should go in. Maybe you’ll find something.”

“We don’t have to,” Warlock hurried to turn away from the store, feeling his face heat with more than September sunshine. He didn’t want to derail the whole group just to walk around a bookshop.

“Nah, let’s do it. Seems like you’d have fun.”

“No, really.” His face was bright red, he knew it, but he didn’t know what to do with this. They shouldn’t spoil the rest of their day for _him_. Rachel had to know that, right? She was teasing again.

She gave him a weird look. Yup, teasing, she was teasing, he should laugh like he had on the tube, not fucking _blush_ like a goddamn kid, come on, _come on_ , there had to be _one_ functioning social instinct in him, or else—

“I dare you.”

His train of thought ground to a halt. “I’m sorry?” She was grinning like a maniac, which, to be fair, seemed to be her usual state.

“I dare you to go into that bookshop.”

Warlock felt his mouth open to say no, the way he’d learned as a kid, but no sound came out. Mostly because, as much as he didn’t want to mess up the group’s plans, he did like the idea of going into the shop. And with a dare… well, he couldn’t be blamed for derailing their day if it was a dare, could he? It was Rachel’s fault now, and she at least was on board with it. Ollie was smiling, too, and Jules looked quietly amused.

What was the harm? He wasn’t Warlock Dowling, son of the American ambassador anymore, not if he didn’t want to be. He wasn’t the future destroyer of worlds, either, he didn’t think. He hadn’t been called that since—well. Not since his nanny left.

Now he was just Warlock. Just a normal uni student going sightseeing with his new friends. And normal uni students were allowed to take dares.

He looked at the bookshop. “Yeah,” he said, sounding a little choked even to his own ears. “Yeah, okay.” And he climbed the steps and went inside.

The thing was, that first time didn’t really count.

He was barely in the door when someone was ushering him back out. He got a quick glimpse of dusty wood shelves and some precarious stacks of old books, but then a cushy middle-aged guy wearing _way_ more layers than could be comfortable in September was blocking his path into the bookshop.

“So sorry, dear boy, I’m afraid we’re closing soon. You’ll have to come back another time.”

Warlock stared at him through his bangs. This was… not what he had expected.

Before he could fully wrap his head around it, the door flew open again and a much slimmer man burst in behind him, shouting about the show starting at four, angel, let’s go, get a move on, we’re gonna be late. And the next thing Warlock knew he was back on the front stoop, the mismatched pair in cream and black headed down the pavement ahead of him.

“Uh,” he said smartly.

“Oh, come on,” Rachel scoffed. “That doesn’t count, you barely went in!”

“They’re closed! I can’t help that.”

“Guess we’ll just have to come back, then.” Jules turned away from the shop, looking even more amused than before. The others followed, jumping back into the conversation that had been interrupted by the bookshop.

Warlock found himself looking back at it as they walked away. As much as it hadn’t been what he was expecting, he found himself looking forward to the next chance to finish Rachel’s dare. Maybe he’d even be allowed to sit and study in there. He liked that idea, being surrounded by old books while he did his work. He’d have to ask the owner, the next time he went back. Because there was going to be a next time. He was sure of that.

***

“Oh, dearest, look at this! Isn’t that just lovely?”

“Mhm.”

“Tracy must be so excited. You know it’s taken her _months_ to convince Shadwell to repaint the kitchen.”

“Mhm.”

There was a rustle of paper as Aziraphale set the photo aside and opened a new envelope. Somehow, when Crowley wasn’t looking, he had managed to convince people that the best way to stay in contact with him was writing letters. Letters! Like it was still 1915 and the only telephone was in the drugstore down the street! Like Crowley hadn’t given him a perfectly functional mobile! It was ridiculous. And… okay, yeah, and absolutely adorable, but ALSO ridiculous.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, scanning the latest message. “Goodness. Anathema’s already planning this year’s… ah, what was it, ‘Friendsgiving?’”

Crowley looked up, his eyes scrunching behind his glasses. “It’s barely September.”

“I know, dear, but I guess she’s trying to get a head start.” The angel put down the paper and crossed the room, sinking down on the sofa next to him with a sigh. “I suppose it will be a bit more complicated this year, now that The Them are off at university.”

“Ngk,” was all Crowley said, hunching a little further into the cushions. He could feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, sensed the concern coming his way before it even started.

“My dear, are you alright?”

Crowley grunted. “Yeah, fine, angel. ‘M fine.”

“You don’t sound fine. Are you feeling well?” A large hand reached into his vision, heading for his forehead, and he pushed it away with a little hiss.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, angel, I’m a _demon_. I don’t have a fever!”

Aziraphale pivoted towards him. “Then what’s wrong?” Oh, G— _pfh_ —bless those eyes. Too goddamn clear and blue.

Crowley sighed. “Doesn’t matter. ’M just in a mood.”

“What about?” He shrugged, and it was Aziraphale’s turn to sigh. Next thing he knew, the angel was wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “My love, you’re going to make yourself miserable.”

He was so warm and soft. It was much easier to just let himself be held. Crowley relaxed into the hug, letting his head fall against his angel’s chest. “’M sorry.”

Aziraphale huffed. “There’s no need to be. You’re allowed to be in a bad mood, of course, for no reason at all. I just wish you wouldn’t mope so.”

“I wasn’t _moping_.” Crowley complained into his shirt, but he practically purred when Aziraphale started brushing fingers through his hair.

“Of course not, darling. Why ever would I think that?”

They sat there for a while, Crowley allowing himself to be comforted and Aziraphale content to do the comforting. The combination of the angel’s body heat and the gentle carding through his hair had Crowley pleasantly drowsy when Aziraphale spoke up again.

“Crowley… _is_ there something wrong?” It was said so gently; no push or insistence, just a request. A ‘please let me help, if I can.’ It did wonders for Crowley’s mood.

“Maybe,” he relented, reluctant to move an inch from his cozy place. “I just… I don’t really want to deal with it right now.”

Aziraphale planted a kiss on the top of his head. “That’s perfectly alright, darling. We’ll talk about it when you’re feeling like it.” Crowley hummed an assent and nuzzled his cheek against Aziraphale’s shirt, ready to spend the next few hours curled up there.

That was, of course, when the bell above the door rang.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale sighed and, to Crowley’s dismay, untangled himself from the demon. He may have whined. He also may have grabbed at Aziraphale’s shirt as he stood up. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be back in just a moment.” And with that, he dropped a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head and went out to the front of the shop. Left him alone. Just abandoned him there on the sofa.

Grumbling, the demon rolled onto his back. One of two things was about to happen. Either Aziraphale would give the customer some shoddy excuse and he really would be back in just a moment, or he would get sucked into a conversation about the literature or about why the customer really _didn’t_ want to buy that first edition, and if that happened it could be a literal _age_ before he returned.

“Oh, yes, perfectly fine!” Aziraphale sounded cheerful through the walls. That boded well. A lost tourist, maybe? Or a return, ooh, his angel _loved_ when people brought his books back, that’d put him in a good mood for _weeks_. “Let me know if I can help with anything. And don’t feel obligated to buy anything; browsing is absolutely allowed.”

“Nooooo,” Crowley heard himself groan. He flopped back onto his stomach. Someone somewhere had it out for him. A goddamn _browser_. Aziraphale loved them, of course, loved that he got to share his books without actually having to part with them, but that meant he’d stay out in the front as long as they were here, which could be _days_. Or, it could feel like days. Crowley’s sense of time tended to get disjointed in times of crisis.

He lay there with his face crushed into the sofa cushion for a long while. It was his only friend now. Despite willing it with everything he had (short of an actual miracle), Aziraphale didn’t come to rescue him. And eventually his nose started to hurt. If he’d needed to breathe, he would have had to move sooner, but as it was even he couldn’t stay like that forever. He hauled himself back onto his knees and groped around on the table behind him for his glasses. He’d started leaving pairs scattered around the shop for moments like this.

Still shoving them onto his face, he stumbled towards the door. He could hear Aziraphale puttering somewhere, doubtless reshelving books that no one else had touched in a few decades. He headed towards the sound, planning to nudge and poke and bug and generally be a nuisance until Aziraphale finally closed the shop and went back to what he was _supposed_ to be doing. Namely, cuddling Crowley.

He was shambling around a corner when there was suddenly rather a lot of dark hair in his face. He lurched back as the mass of hair turned and became a face. “Ah, sorry, mate. You alright?”

Crowley probably grumbled something vaguely menacing as he righted himself and went past. She was a browser. She didn’t deserve anything from him.

But then he made another turn and found _another_ person perusing the shelves. This one looked up and offered him a polite smile, which dropped quickly when he sputtered in indignation. Two browsers. _Two_. At _least_. That was it, there goes the neighborhood, they’d have to move out. Far too many people in here. And none of the ones he’d found so far even had the decency to be Aziraphale.

“Angel!” he yelled. This had gone on long enough. All he wanted was a cuddle. Why was that too much to ask today?

Thank someone, he heard a call from near the back. “I’m over here, dearest!”

“Over where?”

“Near the Wilde plays. Really, darling, do you have to shout so much?” The last was said right to him, as he finally came around the right corner and found his angel searching the drama section. Most of his bookshop was organized by a method only Aziraphale had a chance of understanding, but even a being as morally opposed to the Dewey Decimal System as he was (really, that had been a hell of a conversation, he never wanted to so much as touch that subject with a ten-foot pole again) had to admit that keeping plays separate from prose only made sense. (“I realize that putting the Shakespeare sonnets with his other works might make them easier to find, dear, but really, I can’t separate them from the early A.A. Milne, it would just be cruel.”)

“’M a demon. Demons are… shouty.” He slumped against a bookshelf, trying his best to look dejected.

Aziraphale barely looked up. “Well I realize this isn’t a library, but still, you could at least try to have some manners.”

“Nope.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“Yup.”

Aziraphale sighed, but Crowley could hear the chuckle underneath it. Good. His wiling was working. “You know, dear, if you really want to—”

That was the exact moment Crowley’s brain stopped working. If he’d been looking at Aziraphale’s face, he would have seen it rumple in concern. “Darling? Are you…” He followed Crowley’s gaze. “Oh! Do you need something, dear?”

Standing at the corner of a bookshelf was a pair of big grey eyes under a sweep of dark, straight hair. Or, that’s all Crowley saw. But then they turned to speak to Aziraphale, and it was… it was gone. Hadn’t been real. Just looked a bit like… bit like him, was all. Caught him off guard.

Aziraphale was chatting, and trying to take the book out of the kid’s hands without them noticing. Crowley considered disappearing, going into the back and curling up again. Maybe he’d be a snake for a little while. Snakes didn’t… didn’t have to feel so much. But suddenly he really didn’t want to let Aziraphale out of his sight.

“Hey, you good to head out soon?” The first browser he’d seen peered around the corner. “Jules wants to meet up before lunch.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds good.” See? Didn’t sound like him at all. Too low. Not the right accent, even, much too English, his parents had always kept up the American.

Aziraphale went to show them all out, delighted and cheerful as they left empty handed, and Crowley trailed behind. As soon as the door was closed, Aziraphale found himself with a demon draped over his back.

“Are you alright, my dear? There was a moment back there, you had a very strange look.”

Crowley buried his face in Aziraphale’s collar. “’M okay.”

The angel covered the arms around his waist and leaned back against him. “You know, I think that was quite enough activity for the day, don’t you? Might close up early. Go have a lie down.” Crowley hummed, and Aziraphale reached up to pet his hair. “Come on, then, love. I’ll make some tea.”

Crowley followed him up to the flat. He pushed the grey-eyed kid from his mind with a hot mug cradled in his hands and an angel cuddled up to his side. It didn’t work, strictly speaking, but it made him feel a little better. Distraction, that was the name of the game. When there’s nothing to do to fix it, no medicine left in the bottle, no hotter heating pad to chase away the ache, all you can do is distract.

And there was no fixing this.

***

“Oh! It’s you again.”

Warlock whipped around, feeling like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Sorry, I can—I can leave, if you don’t want—”

“No, no!” The owner waved him off. “You’re perfectly welcome. Just surprised me, is all. I didn’t see you come in.”

Warlock shrugged, looking at the floor and digging at it with the toe of his boot. He hadn’t _meant_ to sneak in, if that was what Mr. Fell thought. It wasn’t like he was the only one in the bookshop today, there were several other patrons wandering the shelves.

“Drama again, hmm?” he asked, leaning in to peer at the book in Warlock’s hand.

Warlock jerked his head in a nod. “Guess I… I dunno, I kinda grew up with this stuff. Shakespeare and Wilde and… y’know.”

Mr. Fell’s face was kind and interested. “Ah! A theatrical family, then?”

He felt his mouth open to say no, not unless you counted politics, which, fair enough, really, but not what Mr. Fell meant. But he didn’t say it. Because why should he? He wasn’t Warlock Dowling, son of the American ambassador anymore. He didn’t want to be. And there was nothing stopping him, here on his own, from introducing himself as someone new. Hell, he’d taken a dare last week. The world hadn’t ended. (And a great enormous screw you to _that_ part of his identity, too, goddamn it. He didn’t want to be Nanny’s little hell spawn, either.)

So, instead of saying no, he nodded. And then panicked, because he didn’t have a plan, and if Mr. Fell asked more questions about the new family he’d just made up he was going to crumple and tell him the truth, and suddenly he realized that he really, really wanted this man to think well of him. And lying right off the bat was not a good way to make that happen.

Luckily, Mr. Fell turned his questions towards the plays, and which ones he’d read or seen, and whether Warlock preferred Marlowe or Yeats (which was a weird set to compare, but okay).

This, Warlock could do. He _had_ grown up with these, after all. Nanny used to read them to him, said there was no better way to generate evil than by introducing a child to _Hamlet_ before they could even write their name. Warlock was pretty sure she just liked doing the voices. And when he was old enough to read on his own, he used to borrow books from Brother Francis, the old gardener. Well, ‘borrow’ probably wasn’t the right word. More that Brother Francis would bring him books, and then look horribly disappointed if he didn’t at least _try_ to read them. Nine year old Warlock liked plays because Brother Francis liked them, and because sometimes he could get Nanny to act them out with him.

Eighteen year old Warlock liked plays because… not because of the memories, no, he hadn’t dared to even touch the copy of _Hamlet_ on the shelf, but there was something gently familiar in them that calmed him down. A bit like being in the bookshop, actually, or around Mr. Fell.

“Oh, dear,” the older man suddenly straightened up. “I hope I’m not taking too much of your time, I don’t mean to hold you up. Are your friends here?”

“No, not today. They’re… busy.” They were hungover, was what they were, or had been when Warlock left that morning. That was one benefit of being the designated drunk herder for the night. No headache for him. “I don’t have any plans, so. And it’s… kinda nice to talk about books without, like, an essay hanging over my head.”

That made Mr. Fell laugh, which made Warlock smile. “Well, my dear, you’re welcome anytime. It’s wonderful to hear someone else’s thoughts on Wilde. I love my husband dearly, but he’s just awful for talking about books.”

“Oi! I heard that!”

Warlock jumped at the voice behind him, and turned to see the lanky man in mostly black who’d been around the bookshop before. He was wearing sunglasses even in the dim light of the shop, and leaned against a shelf like he didn’t possess a single solid bone.

Mr. Fell just sighed fondly. “You know it’s true, dearest.”

“But you don’t have to go around shouting it.”

“What?” The blonde suddenly looked just a bit mischievous. “That I love you?”

“Ngk!” Mr. Fell—the other one, the redhead, was he also Mr. Fell?—choked loudly as Mr. Fell—the first one—leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Don’t be… _like_ that, angel,” he strangled out, his face a truly remarkable shade of red. He was looking rather pointedly at Warlock, who suddenly felt like he had seen something a bit more private than just a peck on the cheek.

“Oh it’s fine, Crowley. They’re just…” Mr. Fell (the blonde one, the redhead was Crowley, got it) turned back to Warlock with a quizzical and slightly surprised expression. “I’m so sorry, dear, I don’t think I ever asked your name.”

Aha, and there they were. This, Warlock had a plan for. It was one of the first things that came up when your gender started to get a little weird around the edges. Not that Warlock was a particularly masculine name to begin with; it wasn’t a particularly _anything_ name, he was pretty sure his mother had made it up just to spite his dad, but that wasn’t really important. There was something big in picking your own name. Rachel said picking hers was like finding a dress that fit in all the places she wanted it to and left growing room everywhere else—and that had pockets to boot. Warlock didn’t really like dresses, but that wasn’t the point, he understood what she meant anyway. So Warlock had a name, one he’d been waiting to try out. He hadn’t quite worked up the nerve at the start of school, had fallen back on the familiar and avoided dealing with mismatched roll sheets, but now? Now there was nothing stopping him.

“Ashley,” he said, and ooh, that hushing sound in there, he liked that. It felt different saying it aloud, to someone other than his own reflection. Felt different when he made it mean _him_. “And, um. They/them pronouns.” In for a penny, in for a pound, right? Had to start somewhere. Maybe it’d be easier to start thinking of himself as a _they_ if he heard it from other people.

Mr. Fell gave him a lovely bright smile. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ashley.” And that was it. They went back to chatting about the plays on the shelf, and Mr. Crowley wandered off pretty quickly, and Warlock (because he was getting there, but he hadn’t yet worked up to thinking about himself as something different) marveled at how easy that had been.

After a bit, another customer pulled Mr. Fell away with a stack of Austen first editions, and Warlock was left alone again. His eye caught on the red leather of Mr. Fell’s copy of _Hamlet_ , and this time, he reached out to run the pad of a finger over the spine. He knew why he’d picked Ashley. Hadn’t wanted to admit it at first, had brought up all sorts of points about androgyny and length and familiarity, but in the end he’d picked that one because it reminded him of another name. Nanny Ashtoreth may have left without a word when he was only eleven, may have been the strangest woman he’d ever met and had definitely made him a pretty strange person to boot, but she was still the best parental figure he’d ever had. He had loved her, and until she disappeared, had never doubted that she loved him. That was more than he could say for his parents.

Yeah, he had a kinda fucked up childhood, he knew it, he was doing his best here.

He waved to Mr. Fell as he left the shop. Ollie had texted him about meeting up in Piccadilly, and it was still warm enough for it to be worth walking. He thought today might be the day to introduce the idea of Ashley to his friends. (Look! He had friends! That was a good sign!)

Going down the front steps, he ran into Mr. Crowley again. He offered a small smile, but wasn’t even sure if the man noticed him. He couldn’t see his eyes, which made it impossible to tell. Idly, he wondered if he always looked so gloomy, or if something had put him in a bad mood. He didn’t look happy, that much was for sure.

But then he got a message from Jules, and apparently he was the deciding vote on whether they should dye their hair green or purple, and the badly edited photos Rachel was sending him required his full attention. The bookshop and its occupants were pushed into a back drawer and put on hold. Right now, he had a whole day to enjoy and all of London to spend it in.

***

Aziraphale had some trouble getting in the door. To be fair, he was carrying the better part of the works of Charles Dickens in one arm, and a paper takeout bag in the other.

“Crowley, dear, could you give me a hand?” he called once he managed to work the door open a crack with his foot.

But instead of a response, all he heard was a loud crash from the back room, followed by a string of faint curses.

“Crowley?” He could barely see into the shop, much less the office. “Are you alright?”

He expected to get sassed. He expected Crowley to appear in the doorway, flustered but covering it up. He might even have expected everything to be miracled out of his hands and to suddenly find himself inside.

He did not expect another crash, followed by what was unmistakably a sob.

“Crowley!” He dropped everything and ran through the shop, skidding around the corners until he reached the door to the back room. “Crowley, what’s wrong? What’s—” Heart in his throat, he didn’t even realize he’d manifested his wings until he suddenly couldn’t fit through the door. “Crowley!”

The first thing he noticed was that Crowley was alone in the room. That was a blessing right there, that it wasn’t some gung-ho angel or vengeful demon come to call. But Crowley was slumped on the floor, hand over his face, and his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, my love, what happened?” Aziraphale pulled his wings in tight behind himself and sank to his knees in front of the demon. He could see what had happened; there was an end table knocked over on the floor, and a cascade of books that had fallen off of it, but that didn’t explain why Crowley was crying. He reached out to caress the demon’s cheek, gentle and comforting, and Crowley shuddered again.

“Angel,” he worked out between heaving breaths. “Angel, it’s not—it’s not…”

“Shh, shh. Oh, my dearest. Come here.” He pulled Crowley into his lap, and Crowley clung to his shoulders while he cried. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Shh, darling boy, everything’s okay.” He wrapped his wings around them both and kept up the litany of comfort until Crowley stopped shaking so much. He ran a hand up and down the demon’s back. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?” He dug his face farther into his shoulder. “My dear, something’s been bothering you for _weeks_ , now. It’s not going to get any better like this.”

After another moment, Crowley pulled back and sat up on his own. His breath was still hitching, and the patches of white at the corners of his eyes were red, but he was calm enough to try talking now. “It’s—it’s just,” His voice was trembling. “It’s—with, with The Them at uni, now, and I—I… he’s the same age, he should, he—and then there’s that _kid_ , with the hair and the eyes and, and _they’re the same color_ , angel, they look like… it looks too much like him, I can’t, I can’t take it.” Crowley’s eyes were full of tears again, and the shaking returned.

“Who—oh.” Aziraphale felt a vacuum open in his chest when he figured it out. “ _Oh._ Darling, oh, my love, of _course._ ” He let Crowley fall back into his arms as another wave of grief overcame him. He felt his own eyes start to burn and weep, and pressed his forehead against Crowley’s temple, needing the comfort himself, now.

Seven years since the end of the world. They’d spent more time without him now than with, but that didn’t help any. Seven years since the end of the world. Seven years since the little boy they’d practically raised together had been gone. Seven years since Warlock Dowling died at the Fields of Megiddo.


	2. Chapter 2

Warlock Dowling did not, in fact, die at the Fields of Megiddo. It was one of the weirder trips he’d been on, but all in all, he didn’t remember it as anything especially remarkable.

Or maybe it was just overshadowed by the fact that when they got home, his nanny was nowhere to be found.

Then came the yelling (nothing new) and somebody threw around words like “divorce” and “scandal” and “worst decision I ever made,” (also nothing new), and then somebody else he’d never heard of decided that the Megiddo fiasco meant the Dowlings were a target for something vaguely threatening (which _was_ new). And then suddenly there were a whole lot of hurried phone calls and more security guards and people he didn’t know touching his stuff. Packing, they said. They were moving back to America. Or, his parents were moving back. Warlock was just moving.

He spent the next two days wandering around the progressively emptier house. He wasn’t allowed in the garden without an agent by his side, which had been cool the first three times, but now it just felt like he was a dog on a leash. Like nobody trusted him.

At first he tried to convince them he’d be fine outside, he’d stay close to the house, and it wasn’t like Brother Francis had a guard with him while he was pruning the rose bushes. But that prompted more of Those Looks, that thing the adults did where they looked at each other and had silent conversations they thought he couldn’t understand.

“Sweetie,” his mother had said, leaning down to push into his space. Ugh, _sweetie_. “Brother Francis isn’t here anymore.”

Warlock’s face scrunched up. “Why not? Where’d he go?”

“We don’t know, pal,” said his father. Ugh, _pal_ was even worse.

A horrible thought occurred to him. “Will he be back before we leave?”

His parents exchanged another one of Those Looks. “We’re not sure, sweetie. Maybe.” _That_ was a straight up lie, and Warlock knew it. Then his father did that sigh, the ‘such a shame, sorry buddy’ one he only did when there were People around. Warlock hated that he counted as People.

“I’m gonna be honest with you here, buddy.” Like hell he was. “Some of the guys think it’s pretty suspicious that he left right before we went to Megano.”

“Megiddo.”

“Don’t interrupt your father.” If it were possible, Warlock’s eyes would have rolled right out of their sockets.

“Whatever, anyway, there are _some_ people who think it’s _possible_ that he was… involved.”

Even at eleven, Warlock had had enough practice with politician speech to get the gist of what his father wasn’t saying. “You think Brother Francis was a spy?”

His mother put a hand on his arm. “No, no, sweetie, _we_ don’t. But _some_ people think _maybe_ it’s possible _something_ was going on.”

It was definitely not possible. It was patently ridiculous, but Warlock would never bring up the subject again, because he really couldn’t stand it when his parents acted like they had known Brother Francis better than he had.

But that wasn’t the worst thing. Because Nanny wasn’t there, either. And that night when he crept halfway down the steps and listened to his parents arguing in the empty, echoing dining room, he heard words like “could have been dangerous” and “such a shame” and “worst decision I ever made.”

And Nanny didn’t come back, even when Warlock stood on the front stoop waiting for the movers to finish loading the truck and pulled at every little bit of evil he could muster to try to make One Day come, to make the power he was supposed to get come sooner so he could bring her back, make everything go back to how it was before she left. How it was _supposed_ to be.

But nothing happened. And when he tried it the other way around, willing Brother Francis to come and take him away somewhere without security guards and yelling and _pal_ and _sweetie_ , that didn’t work either. And the truck left, and the car pulled up, and the plane took off, and that was that.

And Nanny never came back.

***

“Angel. What is this.”

“It’s called a sofa, Crowley. I’d think you’d know what they’re called given how much time you spend on them.”

He shot a suitably scandalized look at Aziraphale, but the angel was too focused on arranging a lamp on the table to notice. Wait—wait, hold up, a _lamp?!?_

“Are you—are you making a _reading nook?_ In the _shop?_ ”

Aziraphale nodded, stepping back to look at his work. “I was in a used bookstore down in Mayfair the other day, and they had a lovely little café set up. Obviously a café’s a bit much here, but I thought a place to sit would be a nice touch.”

Crowley stared at him. “Are you feeling okay?” He reached out to feel his husband’s forehead, but Aziraphale just plucked his hand out of the air and laced their fingers together.

“Perfectly, dearest.” Oh, that smile. One of these days it was going to be the death of him.

But it didn’t do anything to explain Aziraphale’s sudden interest in his customers’ comfort. “Do you _want_ people hanging around the shop? Usually you’re all about getting them out as soon as possible.”

“I don’t mind browsers.”

“Yeah, but browsing and sitting down to read are two different things. What if they get attached to a book?”

“Aha!” Aziraphale lifted a finger and made the same face he usually led a magic trick with. “But that’s the genius of it! They sit and read the book _here_ , so they don’t have to buy it! You should have heard the owner of that shop in Mayfair, she said her sales went down _loads_ when she added chairs. She opened the café just to make up for it!”

Despite himself, Crowley found he was grinning. “Bastard,” he said lovingly. Aziraphale sniffed, but didn’t try to deny it.

He was called away a moment later to help a customer find a copy of _To the Lighthouse_ which Crowley happened to know was near the front window. Aziraphale, of course, headed towards the back wall, leaving Crowley to inspect the new reading nook by himself.

It was cute, he’d give it that. Not his style at all, but he could always swap out the overstuffed armchair for something a bit more sleek and modern and vaguely uncomfortable when Aziraphale wasn’t paying attention. Maybe toss a few tabloids over the coffee table books for good measure. He couldn’t very well leave _everything_ without a touch of the demonic.

Something on the wall behind the sofa caught his eye, and he climbed onto it to see over the back. Was that—was that an outlet? An electrical outlet, in a shop that had never actually been connected to the grid? Not that it mattered for them, everything worked whether it was plugged in or not, so Aziraphale had never bothered with electricity. Until now, apparently.

Crowley looked over the nook again. Sofa, armchair, two tables, a lamp. And an electrical outlet, in the perfect place to plug in a laptop. A cozy little corner to read, or do quiet work, or chat with—aha. Or chat with a few friends.

“You are not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” he told Aziraphale when he returned.

Aziraphale tucked _To the Lighthouse_ into its new, safer place on the shelf. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Crowley flopped back onto the sofa. It could probably fit three people comfortably—assuming none of those people were Crowley, the world champion of sprawling. “It’s for those kids, isn’t it? The students who’ve been in here so much.”

“They asked if they could study here sometimes. I didn’t see any problem with that.”

“Uh-huh. No problem to the point where you built a reading nook for them.”

“I didn’t _build_ anything. I just added a sofa and some tables. Besides, I saw you and the tall one with the hair talking the other day, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Crowley grinned. “What can I say, it’s a promising business relationship. Rachel’s a troublemaker after my own heart.”

Chuckling, Aziraphale left the shelf and sat next to him. He reached out to take his hand, and when he spoke again his voice was gentler. “You don’t mind, then?”

Crowley’s eyebrow slid up his forehead. “’S your shop, angel. You can set up reading nooks if you want to, you don’t have to ask me.”

“Yes, but,” he sighed. The angel’s thumb was running circles over the back of his hand. “Well, I know you’re not completely comfortable being around Ashley…”

Crowley was waving him off before he’d even finished. “Doesn’t matter. It’s not the kid’s fault.”

“But if you’re—”

“No, angel, I gotta….” He paused. What was it, exactly, that he needed to do? Not move on, that wasn’t possible, never would be, but…. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, a quiet encouragement. Heaven above, Crowley didn’t deserve him. He was hurting, too, had done as much in raising Warlock as he had; it wasn’t fair for him to act like he had the monopoly on grief. “It’s… not gonna get better. I mean it’ll _feel_ better, sure, but I mean, we can’t… there’s nothing we can do about it, so… better to just get on with it, right? It’s _gonna_ hurt.” He swallowed, held Aziraphale’s hand a little tighter. “It hurts seeing Ashley, ‘cause it makes me think of—of Warlock, but. The world’s not gonna stop and wait for me to get my shit together.”

Aziraphale leaned into his side, a steady, warm weight. “ _I’ll_ stop and wait for you, though.”

For a moment, no words would come to him. Overcome, he pressed his face into his husband’s hair. He left a kiss behind. “It’ll get easier. Right? They’ll stop being the kid who looks like Warlock and start being just Ashley?”

He felt Aziraphale nod against his shoulder. “I think so, dear. I really do.”

***

“Yeah, everything’s good. Classes are—yeah, ‘course I’m doing all my work, mum, whad’you take me for?”

Warlock did his best not to crack a smile as he listened in. It was hard, though; he was _so_ looking forward to the day he’d get to meet Rachel’s mum in person. Talk about the apple not falling far from the tree.

Actually, let’s not. That way lies madness, and all.

“No, mum, I haven’t made my friends go screaming for the hills yet. Oh that is absolutely what you meant, don’t try to—ugh.” Rachel’s head fell back against the armchair. But she was grinning as she stared up at the ceiling. “No—no, Jules is they, Ollie’s her. Yeah, no. N—mum, it’s— _mum_ , it’s _fine_ , for fff—uuuh—gosh sakes, just—calm down. It’s cool, you’re trying.”

Warlock hurriedly looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t actually spoken to his parents since his return to London. Texted, once or twice, enough for them to know he was alive and for him to know what would happen if he—what was the phrase his mother had used? “Disrespected the investment they were putting into his education.” Yeah. Not the people he wanted to talk to about his friends.

“Yeah, we found this awesome little bookshop—well, Warlock found it, but the owner lets us study here. Nah, it’s, like, old books. Used, yeah, sure. And yes, now you mention it, you _are_ distracting me, I’m getting absolutely nothing done and it’s all your fault, mum, you should be ashamed. Yeah, ‘course. Mhm. Love ya.”

She hung up with a dramatic groan that made Warlock grin even as his chest ached. The first time he’d walked in on Ollie calling her brother he’d had to hole up in his room for an hour to pull himself together. He was better at it now, a little more accustomed to hearing familial banter and casually thrown out “love you”s, but. Hard to get used to something you’ve only ever seen at a distance.

Before he could get back into his reading, Ollie popped around the corner. “Oi, Rachel! Get your ass over here.”

Warlock gave her a look. “Did you abandon Jules?”

“They’re fine.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are they?” So far Jules had found the disorder in the shop fascinating, and they’d taken to walking the aisles to try to figure out why all the books had been placed where they were. But it was a fine balance before the chaos might start to ratchet up their anxiety.

“Yeah, they’re analysing the Jeffrey Archer books, gave me their blessing, it’s fine, now _Rachel. Come on._ ”

“Why?” she replied, even as she was already standing up.

“I think I found a first edition Emily Dickinson.”

Rachel’s eyes got comedically wide and she practically ran towards Ollie. “I thought you didn’t do poetry.” Warlock said as she rushed past.

“It’s _Emily Dickinson_.”

Ollie waved him off. “It’s a lesbian thing.”

“You’re not a lesbian.”

“I’m— _pfh,_ ugh.” She glared at him for a moment, then stuck her hands on her hips. “No, actually, you’re right, but if I’m close enough so are you. Now get over here.”

This time, Warlock’s grin came with a pleasant glow in his chest. She got it. They _all_ got it, and they made jokes and asked smart questions and they _cared_ , they seemed to care about him so much. It was head spinning.

So was the sheer age of the book Ollie showed them, which was indeed a first edition. “This is _wild_.” Rachel flipped through the pages, fingers gentle on the old paper. “How much of this d’you wanna bet was edited to death?”

“Oh, almost all of it, I’m sure,” Ollie said.

“OI! RACHEL!” Warlock and Ollie jumped. Rachel just rolled her eyes.

“No, Crowley, I have not shown my physics professor the video of the ducks with laser pointers. I would like to pass her class.”

Mr. Crowley, who had just appeared behind them, crossed his arms and propped himself up against a shelf. “You are a disappointment to the cause.”

Ollie’s eyes flicked between them. “What cause is that?” she asked cautiously.

“Evil,” Rachel deadpanned, at the same time Crowley crowed “Mayhem!”

That did it for Warlock, and he started cracking up, overrun by how much he loved his friends and halfway high on how _easy_ it all was. When Jules peeked around a shelf looking mildly concerned, it just spurred him on, and he had to put a hand on Ollie’s shoulder to keep himself upright. But he could feel her shoulders shaking, too, and hear Rachel’s rich chuckle, and Jules’ eyes were bright and happy behind their glasses, so it didn’t matter. Nothing else had to matter.

Except… well, not except, it was a different thing, really, but when he finally looked up at Mr. Crowley again, he wasn’t laughing. Hadn’t so much as cracked a smile. Which _shouldn’t_ disappoint him, it wasn’t his concern if this guy laughed or not, and from what Warlock had seen he seemed to be kind of a grumpy sort anyway. But he’d smiled at Rachel, hadn’t he? And Ollie, too. And… actually, now he thought about it, he’d seen him sitting with Jules a few times, talking about the houseplants in the window.

He’d never so much as looked up when Warlock came into the room.

The realization dampened his joy more than he’d like to admit. He shouldn’t care. Not everyone was going to like him, and that was okay, that was normal. So why the hell did he care so much that Mr. Crowley had stiffened up and dropped into a frown the moment he started laughing?

He must have looked bothered, too, because Jules shot him a look, and even when he waved it away, he got the message that he was going to be asked about it later. He was… actually, he was pretty okay with that, to his own surprise. He wouldn’t mind talking about this with them. Maybe Jules could help him figure out why he cared so much about Mr. Crowley’s opinion, even if they wouldn’t know why—

Oh. Or that was an option. Who better to know why Mr. Crowley didn’t like him than his husband?

It took another week before he managed to catch Mr. Fell alone. He was no longer the only one enamored with the bookshop, and even when his friends were working, Mr. Crowley always seemed to be around. Warlock knew plenty well that overhearing them talk about him was not likely to get him into Mr. Crowley’s good graces.

But despite the fact that the redhead was nowhere to be seen, Warlock still felt a bit lightheaded as he worked up the nerve to start the conversation.

“Are you alright, dear?” Mr. Fell asked as he pulled another book from the shelf. Fucksake, Warlock needed less observant friends.

“…can I talk to you about something?” he finally managed, and wow, Mr. Fell just put the books right down, and that was—fuck, that was _all_ of his attention he was giving him, holy hell, he didn’t expect _this_.

“Of course,” Mr. Fell said. “Anything.”

Yep, fucked up childhood, he should not have this big a lump in his throat from an adult wanting to listen to his problems. The last time this had happened had been—fuck. It had been goddamn Brother Francis.

He shook that out of his head. This was not the time.

“I just, um. I noticed.” Come on, Warlock. Come on, you planned this, you know what to say. Read it like a script. “I noticed that Mr. Crowley doesn’t seem to like me very much. Which is fine, he’s allowed to not like me, obviously, that’s not the—not a problem, I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do. Not to make him like me, that’s not my business, but I… don’t understand. Why he doesn’t like me. And he likes my friends, so I don’t know if there’s something I did or…”

“Oh.” Mr. Fell had a hand over his mouth. He looked absolutely distraught. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

Warlock scrambled to reassure him, because he didn’t really understand that expression, but it was _definitely_ an overreaction to his problem. “It’s not—really, it’s fine, I just want to know if there’s anything I can do. He just looks so unhappy when I’m around.”

Mr. Fell reached out to take his hand, and it was the warmest thing he’d ever felt. “You have to understand, Ashley, it’s not you. Never you, alright? Or him, really, it’s just…” He sighed, a great rush of breath like a weight had been dropped onto his back. “You look… you remind him of someone we, ah, someone we lost. And that’s not your fault, obviously, and he knows it, and he’s trying, really he is, but it’s…”

“That’s awful,” Warlock said, a little horrified.

“It is, a bit. But _not_ your fault, understand?” He nodded hesitantly. “There’s nothing to be done for it, really. And it’s getting better for him, I think, as he gets used to seeing you around. It… may take some time. But I really think eventually he’ll stop… well, you know.”

Warlock nodded again. He did understand, now, why Mr. Crowley never talked to him like the others. Why he had—oh, God, yeah the laughing must have—fuck. No fucking wonder. “Thank you,” he said to Mr. Fell, who looked horribly sad himself. “I can—yeah. I get it now.”

Mr. Fell squeezed his hand. “I really am sorry, my dear. I hate that you have to deal with this, too.”

Warlock nodded again, and took a breath. “Is, um. Do—do _you_ …” No, no that’s not okay to ask, he shouldn’t have—

But Mr. Fell was nodding gently. “Sometimes. I think it’s different, for the two of us. He sees what we lost, and I… well, I more see flashes of what we had, I think. Makes it a bit easier.” Warlock looked down at his shoes. He didn’t know what to say. Was there anything to say? Might not be, to be honest. Fortunately, Mr. Fell seemed to understand, or maybe he was in the same boat, because he took a clearing breath and straightened his waistcoat. “I think a cup of tea is in order after a conversation like that. Don’t you?”

Warlock felt blood rushing to his cheeks, but he didn’t duck his head again. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t you dare be,” Mr. Fell admonished. “I’m glad you know. Especially since it was bothering you. Anthony is… he’s doing his best, I promise you, but it’s absolutely not fair to you, and _I’m_ sorry for that. I wish it wasn’t like this, but there’s nothing to be done for it.”

“Yeah,” Warlock made out around the lump that had returned to his throat. “I understand. Thank you.”

Mr. Fell’s smile was so incredibly gentle and kind. “Of course, dear. Now why don’t you go sit for a minute, and I’ll bring the tea when it’s done.”

Warlock nodded and did as he was told, pulling absently at a loose thread on his shirt and thinking about whether it was possible to make his presence easier for Mr. Crowley. When Mr. Fell came back, he set a steaming mug in front of him, and then went to handle some business at the till.

He had, instead of tea, brought him cocoa.

***

There was nothing, bar anything, that Crowley liked better than sitting on the sofa with Aziraphale.

Oh, it could be improved by certain factors, for sure. Music was nice. And funny stories about the day to tell each other, or something new to bicker about. And wine, well, a bit of wine never hurt anyone. Not anyone immortal, at least.

But even on the quiet and still evenings, when neither of them felt like talking, he was entirely content to just sit there curled up in the back room. He liked hearing his angel’s heartbeat when he rested his head on his chest. Liked having Aziraphale’s fingers run through his hair. Liked just being with him.

It was one of those quiet nights, and they had already been sitting there for a while. Crowley could tell something was off, just a bit, in the way Aziraphale sat tense against his side, and how his fingers kept stilling in his hair. He wasn’t going to say anything, though. Aziraphale would talk about it when he needed to, when he was ready. Pushing didn’t help him.

It wasn’t like Crowley didn’t understand having a lot on his mind, either. Seeing Ashley around the shop on the regular was getting easier, a bit, but he still had to work to keep himself in check. He might not know exactly what Aziraphale felt when he saw the kid, but it was tiring, he knew, to keep up the cover of normalcy he was so good at. He was allowed an off night—more than allowed, he could take as many as he wanted. Crowley didn’t mind. He was more than happy to just be there holding him.

So they sat on the sofa, not talking much, content in each other’s quiet company and letting their minds wander.

“Can I tell you something?” Aziraphale eventually asked.

“…yes?” Aziraphale never led a conversation like that. Always jumped right into the issue. So whatever this was, it wasn’t anything trivial.

The angel shifted against his side. “There was a while, right after…” He trailed off, staring out at the bookshop but clearly not seeing anything.

Crowley squeezed his hand. “Right after Armageddon?”

“And the trials,” Aziraphale nodded. He flicked his eyes up to meet Crowley’s. “You were napping.”

“Hey,” the demon protested. “We had just stopped the fucking apocalypse. I think I deserved at _least_ those two days of sleep.”

Aziraphale smiled, but it was a little watery. He lifted their joined hands to his lips and kissed Crowley’s knuckles. “Of course, dearest, and I never begrudged you that. But I… well, I worked myself up a bit, I think, over—over Warlock. And I started researching some more… _occult_ methods of magic.”

That caught Crowley off guard. Aziraphale owned books like that, he knew, locked up in the back where curious humans couldn’t get their hands on them. But he’d never shown any interest in reading them, just keeping them safe. “Why?” he asked, settling his cheek on top of Aziraphale’s head in a light embrace.

The angel took a slightly shaky breath. “I wanted to—it wasn’t very angelic of me, I know, and I never went through with it, but… for a little while, _all_ I wanted was to get some kind of revenge on Hastur.” All the air in Crowley’s chest left him in a rush. “Well, not all I wanted, what I _really_ wanted was to have him back, of course, but that wasn’t possible, so I rather jumped to the next thing, I suppose.”

Crowley’s voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, but it came back to him as he realized exactly what Aziraphale was saying. “You wanted… angel, that could have—fuck, what were you gonna do, summon him? What if he’d gotten out, what if—G—ngg—fuck, _fuck_ , Aziraphale, even if you did the, the smiting… thing, that—you could have burned down the shop, _again_ , and—and _I was asleep_ , angel, _what if something happened you could have been_ —”

“ _Crowley._ ” That tone brokered no argument, and Crowley looked down to see Aziraphale wearing his most open expression and holding his hand in both of his own. “I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. Just thought about it. That’s all.”

He stared into those blue eyes, so open and honest, and took a few deep breaths. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course, sorry. Just got—a little…”

Aziraphale leaned close and pressed a kiss to his temple. “I know, my love. I understand.” He sat back again, resting closer against Crowley’s shoulder. “I think it was the trial that did it, actually. I was so close to him—Hastur, that is—and… well, I was sitting in a whole bathtub of holy water. It would have been so easy.”

“But we didn’t know yet.”

Aziraphale nodded. “But we didn’t know yet,” he echoed. Crowley released his hand to wrap both arms around him and pull him in tighter. That day… fuck, that fucking day. Crowley had called the Dowling house, in his Nanny Ashtoreth voice, just to check in. They didn’t have a plan, had never expected to get that far, but he figured he’d go back for a while and leave more gradually. Warlock wouldn’t need a nanny forever, of course, was already getting a little big for it, but Ashtoreth and Francis could stay in his life. Could still watch him grow up, and go out into the world, and have the normal life they’d always wanted him to get.

And then the woman on the phone told him the Dowlings had left. Gone back to America, probably, but just sort of vanished. She didn’t know why. All she knew was there had been a lot more security around the past few days. And one thing, just a rumor, really, shouldn’t even bring it up, but someone mentioned something about the lad. That something had happened to him on the family’s recent trip, somewhere in the Middle East, she thought, Israel, maybe. Something that had made the parents leave at the first opportunity.

Crowley was in the Bentley before the woman realized he’d hung up. The drive to the Dowling house was never long, but he drove so fast it could have been next door.

The house was empty. He had miracled his way inside, turning locks and confusing security right up to the door, but there was nothing to see. Everything, gone.

When he called Aziraphale, already heading for the bookshop, panic had started to creep into his voice. Something had happened to Warlock at Megiddo. And as much as he wanted to believe it was just a rumor blown out of proportion, he knew how unlikely that was. Because Hastur had been at Megiddo. Hastur had been right there when he realized Warlock wasn’t the anti-Christ.

And anything close to Hastur when he got angry did not survive for long.

Aziraphale’s voice had been so soothing at first, so gentle and calming as Crowley babbled his way through the story, but then all of a sudden there was a sharp intake of breath and then no sound at all.

“Angel?” He couldn’t stop his voice cracking, the panic in his system making everything unsteady. “Angel, what—”

“Hastur,” Aziraphale had gasped. “Hastur, oh God, oh God I thought—I thought he meant _Adam_ , he had to—no, no Crowley _Crowley he meant Warlock he meant_ —”

“What?” Crowley’s hands were white knuckled on the steering wheel, which wasn’t even turning with the car anymore he was so distracted. “What are you talking about? Aziraphale, what happened, _what do you mean, he meant Warlock?_ ”

Aziraphale’s breaths were sharp and fast, his voice starting to crack just like Crowley’s. “He said—he, oh God, Crowley, after the trial, when I was leaving, he was angry that I—you—got out of it, and he was yelling at someone, and he said—he said ‘at least that _boy_ got punished.’ I thought he meant Adam, because he got grounded, but—but—”

“Demons don’t get grounded. That’s not—being grounded’s not a punishment to a _demon_ , angel, that’s not—but if he didn’t mean Adam—”

“No, no _Crowley_ , it can’t—he can’t be—oh God oh _God_ , no, _not Warlock_ …”

They did everything they could think of. The Dowlings’ numbers were all unresponsive. They had disappeared from any list or directory they could find. Nobody knew where they were going, or what had happened to prompt the change. Just the same thing over and over again, they were returning to the States, something gone wrong on their trip, no warning whatsoever.

Aziraphale made the last of the calls. Crowley couldn’t manage being coherent anymore, was balled up in an armchair chewing desperately at his fingernails and feeling like his stomach was far too full and heavy and his head had been pumped full of air and little sharp spikes that floated around and scraped at him unpredictably. He listened, every ounce of attention loaded onto Aziraphale’s voice as he spoke to the last of the neighbors.

“I—yes, of course I realize there’s a—ma’am, yes, I know, I’m the gardener, I _grew_ that hedge. I’m just asking if you saw him, if you happened to notice him out in the garden at any point before they left.” His accent was slipping, had gotten worse with every call. But suddenly, he had straightened in his chair, listening with renewed focus. Crowley felt the weight on his chest shift, allowing the slimmest bit of light in. “No, I wasn’t aware of—on the northwest corner? Then you could see—” He was clutching the phone with both hands, and Crowley held onto the overstuffed armrests for dear life, nails sinking into the fabric and leaving permanent dents. Aziraphale straightened again, and brought out the tone that Crowley could only call angelic ire. “Ma’am, you listen to me right now. I don’t give a damn in hell about your reputation, do you hear me? If there is a hole in the hedge, you have looked through it, and you cannot expect me to believe otherwise. Now, _if you please_ , you will tell me whether you ever saw Warlock Dowling in the garden before they left.”

If Crowley had stopped time, that moment could not have gone on longer. And then.

And then.

Then Aziraphale sunk, practically collapsed into himself like a dying star, taking all the light down with him. “You’re—you’re sure? Never?” The accent was gone now, completely vanished, just like—like—“Not once,” he murmured, echoing what he was told. The phone hit its cradle without any kind of goodbye. Part of Crowley’s brain was sprinting every which way, thinking of other numbers to call, somebody else to check with, _anyone_ who might have seen his little boy since he went to Megiddo. But the darkness was coming in like a hurricane, blowing aside anything in its path as it ate up every dead end and repeated rumor and scrap of hope.

Even Aziraphale was no match for that darkness. He tried, he tried _so hard_ , to keep a candle lit, but there was nowhere else to turn. No one else they knew who might know anything. It was just—done. Just like that. Out of options. Out of choices.

Out of explanations.

Warlock hadn’t been seen by anyone since the Dowlings left for Megiddo. He had stood in front of Hastur, the cruelest demon Hell had to offer, while he realized all of their carefully crafted plans of the last six millennia had gone wrong. Hastur, who would think nothing of murdering a child, who would see it as a perfectly suited punishment for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Aziraphale clutched at his hand, just the way he had the day they realized Warlock was dead. They were curled on the sofa instead of dumped out on the floor, and only one tear made it down Crowley’s face instead of the ocean he had cried that night, and the days and weeks after. But it wasn’t easier. It didn’t get better. Just hurt less, sometimes. Most of the time, now.

It was always going to hurt. Better to just get on with it. At least (thank God, at least) they had each other to stop and wait when things got bad. They’d made it this far like that. They could go a ways more.


	3. Chapter 3

Warlock stared at his laptop screen, slack jawed. This was—no, no this was not happening.

“Shit, shit, shit shit shit,” he chanted quietly, frantically searching through his inbox for something to—no, fuck, shit of course they’d checked, of course they made sure—

“Ash?” Jules was staring at him from the other side of the couch.

“Fuck, did you get your exam score? I thought those were coming out Thursday.” He heard Ollie start rooting through her backpack, but he couldn’t respond, just looked right back at his screen and kept searching. But everything was coming up empty.

A dark skinned hand settled on his knee. “Hey. You alright?” He swallowed. Fuck. _Fuck_ , this was gonna be bad.

He couldn’t figure out how to make words happen, so he just shoved his laptop at Rachel and collapsed back on the sofa. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly grateful he didn’t wear all the eyeliner he used to. “ _Fuck_.”

Rachel’s eyes darted back and forth as she scanned the email, and the crease between her eyebrows deepened. “Your parents are coming to visit?”

Jules made a worried sort of sound, and Ollie looked up from her bag. Warlock just scoffed. “They’re coming to suck up to somebody. They just know it looks better if their ‘globally educated but devoted _fucking_ son’ shows up too.”

Jules was nodding to themselves. “Okay. We can figure something out, Ash, you don’t have to go.”

“I _do_ , though.” He gestured helplessly at the laptop. “They checked my schedule, they _know_ I don’t have an excuse.”

“But you can say no,” Ollie chimed in. “You’re an adult, you don’t have to do what they want, just don’t—"

“ _I can’t just say no!_ ” And fuck, he was yelling now, he shouldn’t be yelling at her, she was trying to _help him_ and he was _yelling_ at her, like some kind of _idiot_ , but he couldn’t stop. “I can’t—fucking hell, they have _everything_ , they _pay_ for everything, the flat, my tuition, my books, I—I’ve never even been allowed a goddamn _summer job_ , I don’t have anything that’s mine! I get—shit, Ollie, if I get hit by a car out there I have to ask them for so much as a fucking x-ray, okay? _Okay?_ _I can’t say no to them_.”

A warm hand ghosted over his back, and he turned, breathing hard, face and chest burning. Rachel was leaning in, the laptop discarded on the table, the look in her eyes perfectly serious, perfectly steady. “So what do we do, then?” He stared at her, struck dumb by the conviction in her voice. “If you have to go, you go. But there are things we can do to make it better instead of worse, yeah? So what do we do?”

“We won’t out you,” Jules insisted. “You know we won’t, we’ll cover for you as much as you need.”

“And we can be right there after. We’ll wait up for you.”

“What else can we do to help? How do we make this shitty, shitty thing suck as little as possible?”

Warlock looked around at them, all carrying so much calm determination in their expressions. The anger that had burned his face and chest was washing away, leaving behind an awful empty ache. His breath shuddered, and he caught at the easiest answer he could find. Just somewhere to start. “I can’t be out,” he choked.

“Done. Easy.”

“And, I…” His mind was starting to race now, too fast in the raw ache of his head. He felt his heart start to speed up, and a dizzy tingle in his cheeks. “I have to—oh, no, shit my _suit_ , it’s not—and I gotta get my nails clean, dad hates that, dad hates nail polish, he’ll…” He pulled at his hair, trying to ground himself again, to pull himself back and _calm down_ , but his fingers were met with another horrible problem. “Oh fuck, no, _fuck, my hair_ , I just—we just—” They had just dyed it. A beautiful purply blue, almost too dark to see the colored highlights against the rest of it. Almost. Not close enough for his parents. “Fuck, _no_ , I’ll have to cut it, I’ll—I’ll have to—”

“You lot okay?”

They all looked up. There by the wall was Mr. Crowley. Standing tensely, one hand on the shelf he had just come around. Clearly concerned, even behind his dark glasses.

It was too much. He was stressed and worried and on the border of panic, and now there was Mr. Crowley, who couldn’t even _look_ at him without getting hurt, and who was trying to stop _fucking grieving_ for _his benefit_ , and all he could do was sit there and yell and scream and be a _fucking goddamned brat_. The tears on his face were hot, too hot, they were burning him and there would be scars on his cheeks after this, but hell, shit, God the pain in his chest was worse, was clawing at him like dull knives had replaced his ribcage. And he couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop from rubbing and scraping against the blades, no matter what he did.

He didn’t realize someone was making him stand up, didn’t realize he was being moved until a soft hand was pushing between his shoulder blades, nudging him into a folded position with his back against a wall.

It was easier to breathe, somehow, even though his diaphragm was crushed against his knees. Maybe it was because he could feel it, could monitor the way it moved in and out under his ribs.

“Are you okay?” Jules asked him, and he managed a kind of choking laugh. “Alright, yeah, bad question. Are you starting to get better, or is it gonna get worse first?”

He had to think about that. He no longer felt like he was going to collapse, or throw up, so that was probably an improvement. And he was pretty sure his breathing had slowed down underneath the sobs, so. Bit farther from a panic attack, at least. He nodded, and gasped out something that sounded vaguely like the word ‘better,’ and let himself slip down the wall to sit on the floor. He kept his knees against his chest, though. He still wanted to feel that he was breathing properly.

Jules joined him, leaning against a bookshelf and fiddling with their necklace. They had moved him away from the reading nook, around a few corners and towards the back of the shop, where it was quietest. Heaven above, Warlock didn’t deserve them. Any of them. “Sorry,” he worked out between silent sobs. Jules tipped their head and gave him an entirely unamused look. Heat rushed to his cheeks again. Right. He was supposed to stop apologizing for his emotions. Ollie had been trying to drill that into his head. Hadn’t worked yet, apparently.

A rustle of plastic and foil brought his head up again. “Here. Want one?” Jules asked, holding out a package of digestive biscuits. He murmured a thanks and fished one out of the bag. They were the ones with chocolate on the bottom—the best kind, the ones he remembered from when he was a little kid. The first bite sent crumbs scattering over his jeans, and the chocolate was already melting on his fingers. Just like how it was supposed to be.

The biscuit gave him a much needed moment. He still felt like shit, but didn’t think he was about to melt into a puddle anymore. “Where’d you get these?” he asked when he was halfway through it, and hey, look at that, his voice wasn’t jumping as much. Good signs all around.

Jules shrugged and offered the package again. “I keep ‘em in my bag. Stress eating. It’s not good for me, but, y’know. Better than other things.” Warlock nodded and took another.

Abruptly self-conscious, he scrubbed at his cheeks. They were too warm, and a little tacky from his tears. Then suddenly there was a tissue being held out to him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle as he took it and wiped at his face. “You’re a godsend,” he said as Jules shoved a whole tissue box across the floor to him.

“I try,” they replied, tone easy and light. Joking enough to make him smile.

They sat there for a while, making their way through the package of biscuits together while Warlock made a solid dent in the tissue box. And somehow, because they were just magic like that, apparently, Jules seemed to know right when he was starting to feel human enough to go back.

“We’re gonna make it work,” they said, helping him to his feet.

Warlock couldn’t quite keep his voice clear. “Are you sure?”

Jules squeezed his hand. “Yeah. Definitely.” Their smile took on an impish tint. “After all, we can’t afford to lose you, you’re the only one who knows how to get anywhere on the tube.”

“Oh thanks, I feel so loved.” But despite the sarcasm liberally threaded through the words, he really did feel… yeah, loved, kinda. He’d never had anybody who teased him like these people did. Like it was only funny if he thought it was, too. It was like—was this what having siblings was like? He’d never wanted siblings as a kid, but… maybe he should have, if it was like this. 

“Fucksake.” He ran a hand over his face. “I think I need to get drunk tonight.”

“I think we can manage that,” Jules chuckled.

And then they kissed their hand and smacked it on his cheek, and he _had_ to retaliate, so he snatched the rest of the digestive in their hand and stuck the whole thing in his mouth.

“You’re the worst.”

He grinned at them. “Love you, too.”

Oh, shit. No, oh shit oh shit oh shit Warlock you _fuckup_ that was too much fuck _fuck_ he’d screwed it up he ruined it he—

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. You say you love me and steal my food anyway.”

He stared at them. And… his chest didn’t feel empty anymore. At all.

“C’mon, before Rachel gets Ollie to do something stupid.”

“Yeah,” he said, following them back to the nook and reeling a little. “Yeah, okay.”

***

“I hate this.”

“… dearest, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Crowley growled and slumped down on the sofa. Aziraphale tried to subtly push the mug of tea closer to him, but the demon was steadily ignoring it. He sighed and made another round of the back room. He was pacing, and he knew it, but he felt better pretending he was straightening up, moving books between shelves like there was reasoning behind it.

“That’s it.” Crowley suddenly stood up, grabbing a pair of sunglasses and heading for the door. “I can’t sit here anymore, I gotta go do something.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hurried after him. “Crowley, wait! We don’t even really know what’s wrong.”

Crowley whipped back around. “Their parents are fucking assholes, that’s what’s wrong! Alright? You didn’t see it, angel, the kid had a fucking panic attack over their parents coming to _visit_. I’m not—I can’t—”

“I know. I _know_ , love.” To his great relief, Crowley softened when he put a hand on his shoulder. His head dropped to his shoulder, and the demon allowed himself to be pulled into a tight hug. “We _are_ going to do something, of course we are. But until we know exactly what’s going on, we could end up doing more harm than good.”

Crowley sighed against his neck. “I hate it,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale buried a kiss in his hair. “I do too, dearest.”

They stayed there for a while, holding each other, trying to settle down. Eventually Crowley pushed back and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’m gonna… think I’m gonna go sleep a bit. That okay?”

“Of course, darling.” He pressed a gentle kiss to Crowley’s cheek and squeezed his hand. But when he turned to go back to the shelves, Crowley didn’t let go of his hand.

“Would you… d’you wanna come too?” His face was so open, so vulnerable, it stole Aziraphale’s breath. He squeezed his hand again, a silent ‘I’m here, I love you, I understand.’ But.

“I think I’d best stay down here,” he said gently. Crowley was already nodding, already resigned to going upstairs alone, but Aziraphale continued, needing to make sure he knew why. “I’m sorry, love, I’m just feeling a bit strung out. I’ll be unbearably fidgety if I don’t find something to do.”

“’Course, angel.” Crowley stepped back in and kissed him, easy and sweet, then offered him a tired smile. “Wake me up in the morning?”

Aziraphale mirrored his smile. “Count on it.” He leaned in for a last good-night kiss, then watched while Crowley headed up the stairs to the flat. He stared after him for a moment, lost in his head.

He’d done things like this before, of course. It was his job, his calling, really, his purpose, to protect those who needed it most. It felt a bit different, though, with Ashley. And not because of Warlock, either—or, at least, not because they looked like him. But prior to the start of the end of the world, he hadn’t often gotten… well, attached, he supposed. Oh, there were humans he liked, close friends he’d had through the years. But he had always kept mostly to the older ones when it came to socializing. Adults were just easier; he didn’t have much in the way of instincts around kids. Not like Crowley did.

But then came Warlock. And even though he had no idea what he was doing, and had nearly panicked and backed out on the drive there the first few times, it had gotten easier. And he had gotten fonder of that little boy than maybe any human before him. And then, even after, there was The Them, who didn’t really need protection, or even guidance so much, but he and Crowley had still been there, on the sidelines, watching them grow up, the way they were supposed to be able to. He had seen, now, _felt_ , even, exactly what kind of connection humans were supposed to feel with their families.

Knowing Ashley hadn’t been given that, had gotten something draining and horrid instead was—it was killing him. But he knew couldn’t do anything yet, knew he had to do this right. Just now, there was nothing to do but wait. Better just to get on with it, find something to keep his hands and at least part of his mind occupied and let the night pass him by.

He went to his desk, first, hovered over it and shifted some papers around. But he’d already caught up on all his bookkeeping that morning—not that there was much to do anyway, given how rarely he sold anything.

Reshelving, perhaps? There was a stack of new finds in the corner, he could begin working out where to put them. Or maybe he should finally sort out the poetry shelf he’d been neglecting.

Or! There it was. Neglecting!

He knelt down beside a table and pulled out a large cardboard box. Inside were stacks of damaged and grimy books that desperately needed rebinding. He pulled one out, a thick tome with a warped spine and only half a cover. Perfect work for idle hands and a wandering mind.

Aziraphale worked on the books for hours. It was easy for him, he’d been doing it so long, but it was the perfect task. He lost himself in examining water-damaged pages and fraying thread, cleaning and mending where he could and picking out new covers when he couldn’t. He lost track of time, aided by the dark night and the constant bustle of the city.

When he first heard the tapping sound, he paid it no mind. It was Soho, after all, and despite the miracles he had invested in the windows there was always some amount of noise. But when he heard it again, the same sound, but stronger and going on longer, he sat up and turned toward the shop.

“What on earth?” he murmured as he stood. There was no one in the shop, he could tell that much. As he moved towards the front, he realized it was knocking. “Who would be here at… he glanced at a table clock, and became even more perplexed. It was half three.

Growing concerned, he moved slowly toward the door. He didn’t _think_ it was an occult—or ethereal—being outside, but better to be safe. When the knocking came again, it sounded harsher and uneven—and then he heard yelling through the door.

“Mr. Fell!” cried a voice he knew. “Mr. Fell, please, we need help!”

The door was open practically before Rachel could finish. “Oh, dear God.” She was leaning against the doorframe on one side and Ollie on the other, and hanging between them, slumped over and head drooping, was Ashley. “In, come on, everyone inside,” he ordered, reaching out to take Ashley’s weight off of Ollie, who looked ready to collapse any second. Pulling their arm over his shoulder, he caught the strong scent of alcohol and vomit. “What happened?”

Jules stepped forward to help Ollie manage the steps. “He fell,” they said, then nearly tripped over the threshold themselves. “Fell over. Didn’t get back up.”

“Have you—” No, stupid question. They were _all_ drunk, even if Ashley was in worse shape. “How long ago?” Nobody answered. “ _How long ago_?”

“We were on—we were on Old Compton Street? What—how long did that….” Ollie fell back against the wall, upsetting small table and sending it down with a crash.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, scrambling to figure out how to take care of Ashley while making sure the others were okay, too. “Alright, back room, come on, everyone needs to sit down, come on now.” He hauled Ashley against his side, getting a better grip on their waist. To her credit, Rachel was still trying to help, and he let her keep Ashley’s other arm over her shoulders even as he took all of the weight.

As they passed the steps, he heard a sleepy voice call down. “’Ziraphale? Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Crowley, dear, could you bring down some towels?” He shared a look with the demon where he was peering down the stairs. Crowley’s eyes widened, and he hurried away to get the towels. Also, hopefully, a pair of glasses; now really was not the time to spook their human visitors.

Finally they maneuvered into the back room. “Jules, move those, will you?” They seemed to be in the best shape, or at least the most mobile. When the sofa was clear of the books he’d stacked there earlier, he laid Ashley down on their side, carefully arranging their head so if they vomited again they wouldn’t choke. He looked around at the others and gestured at the chairs scattered around the room. “Sit.” Nobody moved. “ _Sit_. Before you all collapse.”

Ollie and Jules each made it to a seat, but Rachel stayed leaning against the wall. She was shaking.

Before Aziraphale could do anything for her, Crowley hurried in. His eyes, still expressive even behind dark glass, flicked immediately over Ashley, then turned to Rachel. Aziraphale held out a hand, and Crowley passed him the towels wordlessly before going to her.

No longer needing to worry about all four of them, he was finally able to turn his full attention to Ashley. He pushed a lock of hair away from their face, and his heart chilled when he felt how clammy their skin was. Taking a steadying breath, Aziraphale reached his awareness out over Ashley’s body. A moment later he fell back, gasping.

Crowley’s head immediately swung around. “Are they alright?”

Aziraphale struggled back to his feet. “Get the car.”

“What?”

“They need a hospital. You should have—” He choked himself off. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to go off on the others, when they were drunk, too. At least they’d thought to bring him here.

Crowley’s eyes were terribly wide behind his lenses. “Can’t we just…” He mimed snapping his fingers.

Aziraphale’s mouth was a grim line. Sobering up was unpleasant enough for them. He had no idea if it could have more damaging effects on a human—and this was not how he wanted to find out.

“Sorry.” They both turned to where Rachel was still propped against the wall. She was still shaking, and as she spoke tears overflowed onto her cheeks. “Sorry, we should’ve—sorry, sorry, he's gonna be okay, right? He's gonna be okay?” Crowley put a hand on her shoulder, making gentle hushing sounds and wiping away her tears. “We should’ve—should’ve gone to the hospital, but, but he said no, said he—‘cause, ‘cause of his dad, he didn’t wanna…”

“Shh, shh, ‘s alright, Rach, they’re—er, he's gonna be fine.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Shh, dove, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale looked over at Ollie and Jules, where they sat slumped against each other. They weren’t drunk enough to be in danger of anything but bad decision making, but Ashley was. Ashley was very much in danger.

He made a decision. If he was going to try this, he needed to make sure nothing was there to distract him. “Crowley. I need you to get the car.” When his husband turned a questioning look towards him, he nodded towards the two off to the side. “Take them home. Get them to bed, make sure they’ll be alright.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked to Ashley. “And you’ll…”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll try it.”

With a loud exhale, Crowley nodded, then began gathering up the three drunk students and herding them out of the shop and into the Bentley. On his way out of the room he stopped to squeeze Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the angel reached up to cover his hand for a moment. Then he lifted his face and gave him a weak smile, a blessing to go do what he had to and leave this to him. Crowley kissed him quickly on the cheek, then went to help Ollie through the door.

Aziraphale was left to turn back to Ashley. He blew a long sigh, and sat down next to them, pushing another bit of hair away from their eyes. “I’m sorry, dear,” he murmured to the unconscious kid. “I don’t think this is going to be very nice, but it’s better than the alternative.”

He pushed out his awareness again, this time looking more closely for the edges where the flood of alcohol in Ashley’s system made things go fuzzy and jagged. He reached out the equivalent of a finger and pulled, just a little, scraping back the edge as gently as he could. Then, carefully, he did the same in another spot, and another, all the while keeping a close watch on how much he was doing, exactly how much Ashley’s body could take before it decided he was moving too fast.

After a minute or two he stopped to catch his breath. He truly couldn’t tell if Ashley’s skin felt warmer or if their breathing was picking up again. It could just have been his hopeful imagination. He went back in.

He wasn’t going to completely sober them up, just do enough to keep them safe, make sure there was no permanent damage done. It took time, it took patience, and it took everything he had not to go storming out of the shop to find this poor _child’s_ parents and make them understand exactly what they had done to them. It hurt.

He kept working. Better to just get on with it.

***

He sat on the floor and listened to Ashley’s breathing.

It was better now, louder and not nearly as gut-wrenchingly slow. Still not quite right, but good, incredibly good considering they’d had acute alcohol poisoning just an hour or two ago. Aziraphale had done amazingly, pulling them back from the brink just far enough that their body could cope with the rest itself. They were gonna be okay.

Crowley stayed on the floor.

He heard a thump from the main room, and a loud sigh. He wished Aziraphale would go rest, or at least sit down for a while, but the angel wasn’t made for stillness. Not when he was worried. He had, at least, let Crowley take over monitoring Ashley when he came back from taking the others home. The demon had found him slumped over in a chair, knee bouncing restlessly and looking like he needed about three years of sleep. The miracles he’d been doing were so meticulous, so precise. It had taken it out of him.

Aziraphale didn’t like sleep, though, except on rare occasions when he was feeling particularly content, and now was absolutely not one of those times. So he was puttering around the bookshop, finding busywork for himself and letting Crowley sit in the back room and make sure Ashley was okay.

He startled a bit when the kid on the sofa stirred. They mumbled something, squeezing their eyes shut tighter and shifting their head. Crowley gently moved it back. They were almost certainly past the danger of vomit, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

When he touched Ashley’s cheek to nudge their head into the right place, the kid murmured again, and leaned into the contact. Crowley let his thumb glide over their cheek, giving them a little comfort. A little love.

They shifted again, and this time Crowley let them. If they were actually waking up, it didn’t much matter if—

“Nanny?”

It wasn’t much more than a whisper, Ashley’s eyes still loosely closed. They were only semi-conscious still.

God, this kid. This poor fucking kid, wakes up from something like this and the first thing they do is call for their childhood nanny, what kind of _fucking_ parents leave their kid to grow up like that? How many nightmares did they have to cry through alone? How many tummy aches went uncomforted, how often did this child have to call for Nanny because they knew Mum or Dad wouldn’t come?

He felt the body under his arm jolt, and realized with a moment of shock that Ashley was crying. Great silent heaving sobs that shook them all the way from their shoulders to their knees, chasing away the steady breathing they’d only just achieved.

“Nanny,” they said again, choking out through the sobs. “Nanny, why’d you leave me?”

Oh. Oh, no, this was getting into trauma territory, this was not something Crowley should be listening in on, not when Ashley so clearly wasn’t aware of what was going on.

“Hey,” he soothed, shaking Ashley’s shoulder slightly to bring them out of this. “Hey, _hey_ , kiddo, c’mon, listen to me, you’re okay.”

But it didn’t work, and Ashley kept crying. “You _left_ ,” they wailed. “You—why? What’d I do?”

Oh, _sweetheart_ , honey—

“I _tried_ , Nanny, I promise I tried, I _tried_ ,” they sobbed, and Crowley decided basic comfort wasn’t going to do it. Right now, Ashley needed their nanny.

“I know, darling, I know, it’s okay.” He dropped the hand on their shoulder down to their back and started rubbing in gentle circles. His voice lifted to a softer tone, easy and calming. “ _You’re_ _okay_ , love.”

“I wanted to. I wanted to be—” They choked in earnest, and Crowley quickly urged them forward to keep their airway clear if they threw up. But it was just another sob, caught in their throat like a bad shot. “I wanted to,” they kept gasping through it. Crowley didn’t know how they were getting enough air to keep speaking when they barely seemed to breathe. “I wanted—I tried I tried, it didn’t work, it never works and you didn’t come back, you didn’t—”

“I’m here.” He swept their hair back, wiping the chilly sweat off their forehead. “I’m right here, darling, _you’re okay_ , I’m right here.”

“I _missed_ you! I needed—you weren’t there—”

“I’m here now, shh, shh, listen to me, dear, I’m right here.”

Ashley’s breaths turned into heaves as their body decided it was done with speech until it could get enough oxygen again. Crowley kept rubbing their back, keeping their hair out of their face, talking to them gently. Finally, when they had quieted some, he let them fall back again, moving the hand from their back to their shoulder and helping to pull their shirt back into place.

“You left,” they were still whimpering. “You left me, why? Nanny, why’d you have to leave?” There was more comfort already positioned on Crowley’s tongue, ready to go, but then.

But then.

Then Crowley looked back up at Ashley’s face, and saw that their eyes were open. They were drowning in tears, bloodshot red, and the pupils were still dilated from the alcohol they had drunk. But they were open, and clear, and seeing. And they were looking right at him.

And they were still calling him Nanny.

It crashed into him like a hurricane, like he’d been living in the eye of it for so long he’d forgotten there was more to come, like every barricade and sandbag he’d set out in the interim had rotted in the dark and been pitched aside in one terrifying gust, leaving him bare and unguarded against those eyes, _those eyes, he knew those eyes_.

“Warlock?”

It was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it himself. Or maybe that was just the pounding in his head, the sound of his heart kicking in too strong and too fast carrying all the way up to rattle in his skull and render him deaf to everything but _Warlock Warlock Warlock_.

And he—they—Ashley—whichever, _he didn’t care_ , because they broke down all over again, but there, hidden in the streaming tears and the shaking shoulders was a _nod_.

The floor was gone, there was nothing under his knees, just enough extra air in his head and chest to send him floating, tethered down only by his eyes and his ears and the kid on the— _his kid on the sofa_.

His hand was shaking, _all_ of him was shaking, but he smoothed his thumb over their cheek, drawing away the tears, and even though they had lost all coherency they turned into the touch, crying against his palm, and that was it, Crowley couldn’t stand it anymore, and he slid his hand under their head and the other around their ribcage and he pulled Warlock up to hold them against his chest.

They were big, they were so much bigger than he remembered, and his heart tore apart as it desperately stretched to cover all of them again. But it healed, it knit right back together when he felt their hands latch onto the back of his shirt. And he held them, cradled them again, and felt their shoulders shake and shudder and _breathe_.

“You’re alive,” Crowley gasped, “you’re alive, Warlock, _Warlock you’re alive Warlock Warlock_ …” He was babbling, and he knew it and he didn’t care it didn’t matter _it was okay_. Everything was—fuck, hell, somehow it was gonna be _alright_.

Gradually his brain caught friction again, started to run, started to race, and he gasped. “Aziraphale!” he cried, turning toward the door and pulling Warlock half off the couch with him. “ _Aziraphale!_ ”

He heard a crash, and running footsteps. “What’s wrong?” Aziraphale shouted. “What’s wrong, is—are they—” He stopped dead in the doorway.

“It’s Warlock. Aziraphale, _Aziraphale it’s Warlock it’s Warlock_.”

If his heart hadn’t been through the wringer too many times already the look on Aziraphale’s face might have hurt, but as it was he barely read the heartbreak and fear there before Warlock ( _Warlock_ ) was sitting up in his arms, turning to look over their shoulder and rubbing at their teary eyes with one fist. And they may have been bigger, and they may have been older, but it was so much the same motion they had made so often as a toddler that the last shred of doubt lingering in the room turned and fled. And Crowley got to watch his husband’s face, giddy as he saw him realize, and understand, and lunge the distance between them.

Another arm went around his back, replacing the hand that went to fist in Aziraphale’s shirt instead. Warlock was holding on, holding on for dear life, and Crowley hugged them tighter. He was never going to let go again.

It hurt. It hurt every bit of him, but it was just the pull of an unstretched muscle. Just a love he hadn’t been able to feel in too long.

So best to just get on with it, and let his heart stretch out again.


	4. Chapter 4

“You left.” That was about all he could manage with his head feeling so hollow. His hand clenched tighter in Nanny’s shirt, where he still hadn’t let go. He’d been persuaded to release his grip on Mr. Fell—Brother Francis— _fuck what the fuck_ —and he was already regretting it, already felt the loss at his side. He felt Nanny shift her—no, no _his_ —arm across his shoulders, holding him close against his side, pulling him off of his own chair and more onto Nanny’s—Crowley’s? God, what— _God_. It was too much, it was too—and his head ached already, plus the soreness in his shoulder he didn’t understand, and his _stomach_ , fuck, his stomach would feel better if they turned it inside out, he was sure of it. He was too worn out to cry properly anymore. Just a little bit of shaking and some new tears on his face.

But they _noticed_. Both of them, Nanny was already wiping away his tears, and Brother Francis was back, cramming onto the narrow kitchen chair next to him and wrapping him up in warmth. Warlock immediately locked his hand in the front of his shirt. He wasn’t making that mistake again.

“I’m sorry,” Brother Francis whispered into his hair, chanting it like a prayer. “I’m so sorry, dear boy, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Nanny just held him, beyond words. Warlock could understand that.

Then the kettle started to whistle, high and painfully sharp. Warlock squeezed his eyes shut against the flaring pain in his head, but they flew back open the instant he felt Brother Francis start to stand up, start to pull away, start to _leave_ —

“No, no please, don’t go!” he cried. Every ounce of strength left in his body went into holding onto his shirt.

Brother Francis leaned back down and ran a gentle hand over his hair. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise, I’ll be right here, I just have to—”

“No no no no don’t, don’t leave me again, please, don’t go don’t go don’t go…” he sobbed. He saw Brother Francis hesitate, but then he didn’t care anymore because he was sitting down and holding him again. Somehow, he didn’t see what happened, but somehow the kettle stopped screaming, and even though nobody had gotten up there were three steaming mugs on the table. He didn’t care. He wasn’t going to drink it, anyway, not if it meant he had to let go of them.

They stayed there, three people squeezed onto two chairs and holding each other so close they had no problem fitting. It was easier to think here. Even under the pain, Warlock’s mind was starting to sift through things and figure out _what the hell had just happened_.

“You’re—I’m—” His voice hiccupped as he tried to piece together the right words. “The—the person you lost, who looked like…”

Brother Francis laughed weakly, like he was also realizing just how absurd it had all gotten. “It was you, my dear. It was you the whole time.”

“But why?” He sniffled, and shifted upright a bit, so he could see their faces better. “Why’d you think I was dead?” Nanny’s arms tightened around him, almost enough to be painful, but he still seemed too overwhelmed to speak. Brother Francis took a breath.

“It was… when you went to Megiddo, there was a… man, a man there, called Hastur. Do you remember?” Warlock nodded slowly. He wouldn’t have remembered the name, but he knew who Brother Francis had to be talking about: the strange man in the dirty coat, the one who had freaked his parents out so much they’d had to move all the way across the ocean. “We, ah, well, we know him… from…” And he watched as Brother Francis and Nanny’s eyes met and they shared one of Those Looks, that thing his parents had done so goddamn often he’d never even tried to get them to stop.

“Don’t,” he snapped, loud enough to startle both of them. “ _Please_ don’t do that, just _tell_ me.”

Nanny finally spoke up, and his voice was rough and waterlogged and lower than he remembered, but it was still so clearly _Nanny_. “We will. We will, I promise, but, just…” He looked to Brother Francis to find the words he couldn’t.

“Not tonight.” Brother Francis’s hand lifted from his shoulder to smooth down the hair on the back of his head, calming and slow. “It’s too much. For any of us, it’s too much tonight.”

Warlock nodded, suddenly exhausted again. “Okay. That’s okay.” He trusted them. He had trusted them right from the start, right from the first time he walked into the bookshop. “So you’ve… been here… the whole time?”

Brother Francis tipped his head side to side in a clear “sort of.” “And before. It’s…” he sighed. “It’s all a bit complicated, I suppose.”

“But this is… this is real. You’re… not really Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth.” Nanny’s head jerked towards him with a pained sound, eyes wide and visibly panicky even behind his sunglasses. “You’re—no, you’re _my_ Brother Francis and Nanny. Just, not… _they’re_ not real. You are.” He pushed himself a little farther into Nanny’s arms as he relaxed again.

Brother Francis was nodding. “As far as… well, no, no that’s a good way to look at it. We can explain better later.”

Warlock took a long breath. It was easy now, breathing, and he savored it, taking in the smell of tea and coffee and leather and old paper and wondering how in the world he hadn’t noticed the familiarity of it before. “Can I ask one thing now?”

“Of course, darling. Anything.”

“What’s… what’s your name? Your real name?”

His face softened, bright blue eyes shining. “Aziraphale,” he said softly.

Warlock tipped his head to the other side so it landed on his shoulder, and Brother Francis—Aziraphale, he tested out the name in his head, _Aziraphale_ —carefully brushed his hair away from his face. “I think I like Francis better."

That startled a laugh out of him, vibrating his chest against Warlock’s side, and he tucked his head against his shoulder, letting the _happy_ wash over him. “My darling, you can call me whatever you’d like.” He pressed a kiss to Warlock’s hair. “Whatever you’d like, dear b—oh!” He tensed up, but Warlock didn’t move, didn’t move an inch from the circle of his arms. “Oh, my dear, I’m—oh we’ve been deadnaming you this whole time, I’m so sorry, that was—”

“’S okay,” Warlock mumbled into his shirt.

“No, it’s… oh, I’m sorry, we’ll stop—”

“No, no it’s not…” he sat up a little better, hoping it might help his brain find the words. “It’s not… not a deadname, really, just… not all the time? I don’t know, I don’t know…”

Nanny ran a still shaky hand up his back. “You don’t have to know. ‘S okay, sweetheart, you don’t have to know anything, that’s fine.”

“Just tell us what you need. Is… would you rather Warlock or Ashley, right now?”

“…Warlock,” he answered. “It… feels nice when it’s… when it’s you saying it, I…” He felt his voice cracking apart again, and new tears building up in his eyes. “I missed you. I missed you so much, I thought—thought you were gone, you left me and—and—"

“We love you.” Nanny’s hand came up to his cheek, and he could see the tears tracking down from under his glasses. “You have to know that, Warlock, we looked for you, we—we tried, we just—” His eyes were getting wider, his breathing faster, and he was looking between Warlock and Brother Francis with mounting horror. “We didn’t—fuck, no, fuck we _gave up_.”

Brother Francis reached his free hand to cup his husband’s cheek. “Oh, my love…”

“We gave up, angel, we _gave up on him, we could have—what if—_ ”

That was enough of that, Warlock decided, and he buried his face in Nanny’s shoulder, felt his arms come up automatically to pull him closer. He thought about how distraught Nanny—Crowley? Fuck, that was still doing his head in—how distraught he had looked when he laughed that one day in the bookshop, how he’d quietly left the room whenever he came in. “It’s okay,” he said into his neck. “I’m okay."

“We should have been there.” He was shaking. “We should—we should have kept looking, we never should have left you.”

“I’m okay now,” Warlock repeated. “I’m okay.”

They didn’t move for a while after that. Warlock let himself melt into Nanny’s embrace, let Brother Francis card fingers through his hair and murmur comfort to both of them.

He shifted awake some time later with his head cradled against a soft cotton shirt and sturdy arms holding him against a warm chest. He blinked blearily around the hallway he was being carried down. “Where’s Nanny?” he mumbled.

He could feel Brother Francis’s voice resonating in his chest and burrowed his head into it. “He’s right behind us, love,” he answered, and dropped a kiss into his hair. Warlock hummed and let his eyes drift shut again.

He didn’t know how the bed he was set down on was so warm, or where the soft pajamas they helped him change into had come from. He didn’t know why Nanny didn’t need sleep, too, or how Brother Francis’s tea suddenly reappeared as he settled into an armchair in the corner of the room.

He didn’t care. Because for the first time in years, the first time since he was very small, he got to fall asleep listening to his lullaby.

***

Aziraphale woke up to a faint buzzing sound. It stopped before he was really conscious, and he shifted back down in his chair to doze off again. He didn’t often fall asleep at all, but apparently last night’s emotional roller coaster ride had been enough to—

He jerked upright again, head ringing and heart pounding in his chest, suddenly convinced it had been a terrible, cruelly lifelike dream, that nothing had actually changed and the world was spinning on without him. But as soon as he got a clear view of the bed he relaxed again. Because there he was, their Warlock, curled up small under the duvet, all grown up but _alive_ , breathing deep and slow, still fast asleep right where they’d tucked him in.

He stood carefully, stretching out his back and then tiptoeing around to the side of the bed. He dropped a kiss to Crowley’s cheek where he still slept slumped down in the chair he’d dragged over the night before. Leaning over the bed, he brushed Warlock's hair back to do the same, and noticed that the ends were dyed a subtle shade of blue, so dark he hadn't even seen it before. Aziraphale carded his fingers through Warlock's hair, and felt all the air in his chest expand and start to glow with warmth.

He didn't know what had happened to Warlock in the years since he and Crowley had left. Well, that wasn't true; he knew Theodore and Harriet Dowling perfectly well. And if Warlock's panic attack was a sign of anything, it was that they hadn't improved with time. (And they _would_ be having a conversation about how to handle that situation.)

And yet, all Aziraphale felt was happy. Because despite everything, Warlock's life had been getting better in the month or so he had been back in London. Out from under his parents' thumbs at last, he was finally able to make his own choices, and learn about himself, and be the kind of teenager who could just dye his hair without worrying about anything. And his friends--Lord above, his friends were _incredible_. Aziraphale would never stop being grateful to them for being so supportive, and protective, and for realizing when Warlock was in danger and bringing him to them. (Although they _would_ be having a conversation about how they'd gotten into that situation.)

Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss to Warlock's temple, trying to send him all the warmth and joy he was feeling, to let him know how incredibly proud he was. He was just leaning back and considering whether he should go make tea when he heard the same buzzing that had woken him up.

As he never actually used the mobile phone Crowley had bought him, it took Aziraphale a moment to realize the sound was one of those on vibrate. Once he figured that out, though, it only took a quick look to determine that the phone was Warlock's, set on the bedside table when they'd miracled his clothes clean and folded the night before.

The last thing he wanted to do was pry, but knowing this was at least the second call the phone had gotten in the past few minutes, he checked the screen. He just missed the incoming call, but the notification list popped up, and his eyebrows creased, a layer of trepidation bubbling into his stomach. Fourteen missed calls. Nearly a hundred texts. He wasn't sure how to find out who they were all from, and poking around Warlock's phone, manually or miraculously, seemed like a bad breach of privacy. But at the same time...

He glanced over at Warlock, sound asleep and still recovering from both the alcohol and the miracles Aziraphale had used to remove it. Goodness knew he needed rest. (And Aziraphale knew goodness.) But fourteen calls couldn't just be ignored, so even with a guilty weight in his stomach, he took the phone out into the hall. It took him another minute and a minor miracle, but he managed to call back the most recent number. Luckily, the name that popped up on the screen was one he knew.

"Jules? It's Mr. Fell," he said as soon as the phone was picked up.

"Mr.—oh god oh _god is he okay?_ Is Ashley—"

"He's fine, dear." Aziraphale put on his most soothing voice. "He's going to be perfectly alright."

"Oh, god, he's—he's—" For a moment, Aziraphale was concerned they might be hyperventilating, but he needn’t have worried; they were getting enough air to start yelling. "OLLIE! RACH, _Rach_ , he's okay _, Ashley's okay!_ "

Aziraphale made out a long string of expletives and several blasphemies in the background of the call before Rachel's voice suddenly took over the phone. " _Ashley?_ Are you—"

Aziraphale interrupted before she could get too upset. "I'm sorry, my dear, this is Mr. Fell. Ashley's sleeping at the moment. But I promise you, he is more than alright."

Rachel took a shaky breath. Amidst the continued background cursing, he made out something like a question, and after another moment of muted chaos Rachel said "Here, wait, just let me..." and all of a sudden the sound evened out. Ollie’s impressive use of profanity came through loud and clear, sharply contrasting Jules saying a quiet prayer in Arabic. Rachel just seemed to be trying to catch her breath.

Fourteen calls. A hundred text messages. All from three terribly hungover teenagers desperately trying to make sure their friend was alright. Had Aziraphale still been on speaking terms with Heaven, they would have been getting a hell of a report. (Not literal Hell, mind you, that would rather defeat the point.)

“Can we come see him?” Ollie was still borderline shouting. “Can we—are you still at the—fuck, shit did you have to take him to the hospital? Fuck _fuck_ can we—”

“Breathe, Ollie.” If there was a little bit of miracle in his voice, Aziraphale felt no guilt over it. “We’re still at the bookshop. I have some, ah… medical… training. I could—we were able to keep him here.”

“Can we see him?” Jules asked quietly.

Again, there was that joy, that pride in these kids and how good they were to each other. “I think that’s a marvelous idea,” Aziraphale said gently. “But I’m not sure when he’ll wake up. He needs rest more than anything right now.”

“Okay,” Rachel spoke up again. “Okay, can you call us? When he wakes up?”

“Absolutely.”

There was another moment of faintly shuddering breathing before Jules took over the phone. “Thank you,” they said. “Thank you, Mr. Fell, thank you so much.”

“You are so very welcome,” Aziraphale replied. “And thank you for bringing him here. He might’ve—it would have been much worse if you hadn’t.”

None of them responded to that. From a distance, he could hear Rachel muttering to herself, chanting “he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay,” under her breath.

“He is,” Aziraphale said firmly. “He is perfectly okay, and so are all of you. Though we _will_ be having a discussion about safe drinking habits when you’re all here.”

“Don’t worry,” Ollie grumbled. “I’m never fucking drinking again.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I don’t think that’s necessary, dear. You were all very lucky this time, but as long as you’re more careful in future you’ll be fine.”

After a few more reassurances, and a firm promise that he would have Warlock call them as soon as he was able, Aziraphale ended the call and went to the kitchen to turn on the kettle. He wasn’t very surprised to find Crowley there a moment later, sleep rumpled and slouched in the doorway. “Good morning, darling.”

“Hey, angel…” He looked distracted, but let himself be led to the rickety table and took the tea Aziraphale handed him. Aziraphale just sat and sipped his, willing to wait however long before his husband was ready to put what was bothering him into words.

“He’s still sleeping?”

“Mhm. Out like a light.” Crowley fiddled with his mug, and took a breath. “We need to figure out what we’re gonna tell him.”

“I won’t lie to him again,” Aziraphale said bluntly.

Crowley shook his head firmly. “No. Absolutely not, never. But it’s… I mean it’s a _lot_ , angel. It’s not just him, it’s Adam, and the apocalypse, and—and the fucking reality of the _universe_. All that at once’s _gotta_ be too much for him to process.”

Aziraphale hummed in thought. “Maybe not. The Them took to it all rather quickly.”

“The Them were eleven, angel. And they had just seen Adam fly, and conjure literal aliens, and fucking--they beat the fucking horsepeople of the apocalypse, you can’t use them as a measure for normal reactions to this stuff.”

“Fair,” Aziraphale said. “So where do we start? Heaven and Hell?”

Crowley made a face. “Maybe we should avoid the angel and demon thing. To start.”

Aziraphale felt his eyebrow raise. “That’s a rather important detail, dear.”

“I—just—let’s try to keep it to him, at first, yeah? Maybe start with the baby swap?”

“Yes, well… it may not be the best idea to jump in with the fact that his parents weren’t really supposed to be his.”

The mention of the Dowlings had an immediate effect. Crowley’s face darkened, losing all its sleepy concern in a breath. His mouth twisted in a snarl, and the dim morning light suddenly flashed on his glasses sharp as knives. “His _parents_. Shit, when I— _I’m gonna fucking_ —”

“Yes.” Aziraphale covered Crowley’s fisted hand with his own. “You will. _We_ will. But this is about Warlock now. We have to take care of him first.” Crowley’s hand clenched tighter under his, but he hissed out a long breath, doing his best to calm down. Aziraphale waited, and pushed down his own fury. His had been simmering below the surface for hours, boiling away inside while he forced every movement and every word to be easy and calming. They needed gentle, right now, and he may have been a Principality, a defender and a warrior first and foremost, but he was the Principality who had given away his sword to keep Adam and Eve warm. He was also made for kindness and love.

“Okay,” Crowley said after a few moments and several deep breaths. “Okay, but we still gotta… still gotta figure out what we _should_ start with.”

Aziraphale shifted in his chair. He had an idea of what they should start with, but he would have to change Crowley’s mind about it. “My love… he won’t think badly of you.” He’d thought Crowley might play dumb, but he just stiffened and looked away, his face turning red. Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “He won’t. He loves you, my dear, and he knows you love him. Knowing you’re a demon isn’t going to change that.”

Crowley scoffed, but it came out a little choked. “Easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’re a fucking _angel_.”

“He needs to know, darling. It’s… I think it’s the best way to introduce everything. As a first step. He knows us, that should make it easier to process, and it’s the reason for rather a lot of what happened. And it _won’t_ change how he sees you. I’m absolutely sure of it.”

Crowley didn’t look at him, and didn’t respond except to flip his hand over to better hold Aziraphale’s. They sat there quietly for a while, while Aziraphale drank his tea and Crowley fidgeted with his. Aziraphale had nearly finished his second cup when he heard stockinged footsteps in the hall, and looked up to see Warlock in the doorway. His face broke into a smile he couldn’t have stopped if he tried. “Good morning, Warlock, darling!” He didn’t miss the way Warlock’s shoulders relaxed as soon as he said his name. Lord above, all three of them must have woken up scared that this had been a dream, that it was too good to be true. “Did you sleep well?” Warlock nodded, then grimaced and brought both hands to his head with a groan.

Crowley was out of his seat in an instant. “Are you alright? Do you feel okay?” He placed a hand on Warlock’s forehead to check if he was feverish, but as soon as Warlock felt the contact he fell into Crowley’s arms. Crowley didn’t complain.

“‘M okay,” Warlock mumbled, with his cheek pressed to Crowley’s chest and his eyes closed. “‘S just my head hurts.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Aziraphale chuckled. He stood and pulled another mug from the cabinet, the kettle suddenly steaming again with only a thought, but stopped in his tracks when he realized he didn’t know how Warlock took his tea. That would only be the first, he was sure, on the list of things they’d missed as their little boy grew up without them. For a moment he was horribly, horribly sad, but then he realized that it almost… didn’t matter, now. Because now he could _ask_. He wished he already knew, but if the alternative was never finding out that Warlock liked milk and no sugar, he would pick this every time.

They settled down at the table again, in a looser mirror of the night before. Warlock shifted between leaning against Aziraphale’s shoulder and letting Crowley rub his back when the pain in his head spiked. There would be no miracling this. Even if Aziraphale had it in him to do more healing, he couldn’t very well leave Warlock with none of the consequences of his poor decision making. That’s what being a parent was about, wasn’t it? Keeping your children safe enough to learn their lesson and giving them a soft place to land when they needed it.

Warlock was quietly thrilled when he learned his friends had been calling after him. “Oh,” he said, blushing furiously. “That’s, um. Yeah. They can—I can just go get dressed, if they want to come over. Won’t take long.” He pushed his chair back and moved to stand, but he stopped before he’d gone far. “Wait, but…” He fumbled for words, and at almost the same time Aziraphale and Crowley each took one of his hands. “I—I want to tell them. Who you are, why I—why I know you, but…”

Crowley looked up at him with a faint smile. “But that’d be easier if _you_ knew, wouldn’t it?”

Warlock’s blush deepened, but he nodded. Aziraphale saw Crowley take a deep breath, and he reached across the table for his hand. “Are you ready to do this, my dear?” He took another breath, but nodded firmly.

Warlock’s face turned curious, and he turned all of his attention to Crowley. “...ready to do what?” And Crowley didn’t turn away, didn’t look down, just reached up for the sunglasses that had always been perched on his nose when Warlock was in the room. He smiled again, still gentle, but brighter this time.

“Love, I’m ready to do anything for you.” And he pulled the glasses off.

*** 5 Months Later ***

“Don’t you dare.”

“Hmm…”

“Look at my face, Olivia. Don’t. You. D—”

_Fwip_. “Uno.”

Rachel slammed her cards down on the table. “Why? Why do I even play with you anymore, you _always_ fucking win.”

“Oldest sibling skill.”

“ _I’m_ an older sibling!”

“Old _est_ , Rach, you don’t count.”

“What about my only child skill?”

They both looked at him pityingly. “Honey. Sweetheart. Light of my life, there is no such thing and you are the proof.”

Jules peered over Rachel’s shoulder. “You know she hasn’t actually won yet.”

“She’s going to. I know it, she always does this, you’ve got a wildcard left, haven’t you?” The offending card was dropped to the pile. “I hate you.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and Warlock—it was a Warlock day today—stood up. “I got it.”

“Oh, shit, is it time already?” He heard them start to scramble behind him, running around to pull themselves together.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by a lanky man in black with sunglasses on his nose and a grin bright enough to power the sun. “Hey, kiddo.” And just like that, he was wrapped in Crowley’s arms. The hugs were still a bit long, still a little desperate, still making up for the years of hurt.

He really wasn’t bothered by that.

After a moment, Crowley looked over his shoulder into the flat. “You lot ready?”

“Nope!” Ollie ran past with a granola bar in her mouth, and Crowley let go of Warlock to follow her.

“You better not throw up in my car again.”

She gave him her most nonplussed look. “Then maybe you shouldn’t drive like a fucking maniac.”

“He _is_ a fucking maniac,” Rachel called from the sofa.

“Hey!” Crowley’s tone was serious, but the ghost of a smile was clear on his face. “Young lady, I pay a quarter of your rent, I do not have to take this sass.”

Warlock stepped past him to grab his shoes. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, then sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You know what, I can’t even say anything when it's you, you’re my fault.”

“Yup.” Warlock could feel his grin almost down to his toes.

“Mr. Fell’s coming too, right?” Jules asked. They were ready to go—shoes on, jacket zipped, bag on their shoulder.

Crowley nodded and leaned against the doorframe. “Yeah, he’s out in the car. No point in—”

“Hello, dear!”

“FUCKING—heaven, angel, don’t _do_ that!”

Aziraphale leaned through the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. “Are we ready to go?”

Warlock finished tying off his shoelaces. “Nearly.” He looked up and found Ollie holding a hand out to him. Grinning (and maybe blushing, _just slightly though_ ) he let her haul him to his feet.

“Oh I’m _so_ looking forward to this,” Aziraphale was gushing to Jules. “I haven’t seen a production of _Earnest_ in _years_.”

“Thank you for lending it to me,” Jules said. “I’ve never seen a play I’ve read before, I’m really excited.”

“Did you get to finish it?” 

“Just yesterday.”

“Oh that’s _wonderful_. It’ll make so much more sense, believe me, I love Oscar’s work dearly, but he does like his subplots and disguises.”

“Right,” Rachel joined them by the door. “I haven’t read a play since high school, what’ve you gotten us into?”

Crowley flung an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, kid, sit with me, I’ll point out all the sex jokes.”

Aziraphale shot him a look, but Crowley just laughed and started ushering them all out the door. “Show starts at four, you lot, let’s go, get a move on, we’re gonna be late.”

“Oh, Warlock, dear, aren’t you going to be cold like that?” Aziraphale asked as he passed, and Warlock realized he’d forgotten his jacket. When he came back with it tossed over his arm, his friends were halfway down the hall, and a mismatched pair in cream and black were headed after them. A mismatched pair that was so incredibly familiar he couldn’t really stand it, and he hurried to lock the door so he could run after them and squeeze in another hug before they reached the car.

“Oi, Warlock! You ready?” Rachel called back to him.

And he was. Dare he say it, he really was.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that ride as much as I did! If you wanna say hi, I'm on tumblr [over here!](https://one-with-the-floor.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nearly Known](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208226) by [cassieoh_draws (cassieoh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws)




End file.
